by Jo Lauer

“Babe…” Wendy called as she stomped snow from her boots in the foyer before walking ploddingly and stocking-footed down the Italian-tiled hallway toward the kitchen. The strident chirp of a bird was the only response.

She stopped short and grinned at the profusion of red rose petals and brightly colored confetti that littered the entryway to the kitchen. “She remembered,” she said, her eyes moist with emotion. Wendy was a sucker for romance. Visions of chocolate-dipped strawberries, champagne, brie, paté, and her favorite crispy crackers danced in her mind as she stepped lightly over the confetti and into the kitchen.

A chirp and a twitter greeted her from the cage on the countertop. “Can you say, ‘Happy Birthday, my favorite person’?” she addressed Pesto, the green parakeet she’d inherited along with the apartment a little over a month ago.

Wendy cast a glance around the room. Not only was there no Xena, the current love of her life, and no strawberries—dipped or otherwise—the sink was still full of last night’s dishes abandoned in lieu of impulsive, hot sex followed by a shared bubble bath. Wendy grimaced at the marinara sauce tenaciously clinging to the white china plates. It almost canceled out the frisson of excitement at the memory of the preceding evening. Almost. She smiled.

“Xena?” she called into the emptiness of the rooms beyond the kitchen. Perplexed, she returned to the plethora of confetti and petals strewn about the hallway.

“Hunh,” she mumbled as she bent down for a closer look. There were letters on eight of the tiny squares of colored paper which she carefully extracted from the mass. She returned to the kitchen and laid them out on the table like Scrabble tiles. “She knows I love a good game,” she said over her shoulder to Pesto, who squawked his agreement.

Crossword puzzles came easily to her, and her mind, trained to see patterns, quickly picked out the word bitch. “Well,” she huffed, “that’s some birthday greeting.” There were three letters left. Her hand began to shake as she arranged them in front of bitch. Wendy gasped for breath as she read die bitch spelled out in colorful confetti in front of her. She glanced furtively around the kitchen. The shades were drawn, the door to the patio locked. An ominous feeling of dread and danger began to seep its way into her muscles, and she hunched her shoulders self protectively. She’d read in the tabloids about roommates who turn out to be serial killers.

It was true; she didn’t know Xena all that well. They’d only been officially dating for a couple of weeks. Xena had shown up last month to look at the apartment the same day as Wendy had; they quickly acknowledged a mutual spark over dinner at an intimate little Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood. In fact, they’d gotten on so famously that they had decided to share the two-bedroom apartment. In her head, she heard the exasperated responses by her straight friends when she told them she and Xena were moving in together. “You’ve known her how long?” was the now-familiar refrain, followed by snide references to the clichéd lesbian second date involving a U-Haul. Two weeks ago, the attraction between them had grown so intense, they’d waived the white flag and surrendered.

Wendy was deep in thought and didn’t hear the door at the end of the hall click shut, or the quiet footsteps approach.

“Happy Birthday!” Xena shouted, grinning broadly and waving a bouquet of iris in one hand and a dozen purple balloons in the other.

Wendy screamed. Pesto began flapping about wildly in his cage, squawking and screeching hysterically.

Startled, Xena lost her grip on the balloons; they floated up to the vaulted ceiling and clung there as if in fear for their lives.

“What the…” Xena stammered.

“Stay back,” Wendy hollered, grabbing a spatula from the sink. She held it in front of her like a weapon. A dried noodle clung comically to the handle.

“Wen, get a grip. What’s wrong with you?” Xena, hands up in surrender, backed carefully away from her spatula-wielding girlfriend. “You’re freaking out the damned parrot,” she added.

“He’s a parakeet, you psycho,” Wendy retorted. “Do you want to explain this?” she shouted, jabbing the spatula at the lettered squares on the table.

Xena came forward carefully, not taking her eyes off Wendy. She glanced down at the table. “Die bitch? If this is some new game of yours, I don’t think I want to play,” she said.

“Game of mine? You left this for me in the hallway,” Wendy accused.

“No, I didn’t,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “It’s so like you to go to the worst case scenario.”

“What do you mean, worst case scenario? How else would someone interpret ‘die bitch’?” Wendy exclaimed, slowly lowering the spatula.

Xena reached over and arranged the squares to spell ‘itch’ and ‘bide,’ then rearranged them to spell ‘bit’ and ‘chide.’ She raised her eyebrows and shot Wendy a look.

The phone rang and Wendy jumped. She backed up slowly, still keeping her eyes on Xena, and reached her arm out to lift the receiver from the wall-mounted phone.

“Happy Birthday to you,” her mother sang, “Happy Birthday, sweet daughter, Happy Birthday to you. Did you get my surprise?”

Wendy turned toward the wall and lowered her voice. “Did you leave it in the hallway?” she asked.

“Yes,” her mother said gleefully. “Wasn’t that fun? So when will you go?”

“Go where? What are you talking about?”

“The gift certificate for that five-star restaurant you and what’s-her-name have been wanting to visit. What did you think I was talking about?” Her mother sounded genuinely confused.

“Her name is Xena,” Wendy said, casting a quick glance back over her shoulder. “Hang on a minute, Mom,” Wendy said, and placed the phone on the counter. Xena looked at her quizzically as she rushed past her to the hallway. Wendy brushed aside the pile and retrieved a red envelop, camouflaged by the petals and confetti. She ripped it open, extracted the certificate, and squealed with delight as she ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the phone.

“Mom, this is wonderful! Thank you so much. But, I need to know – what’s with the lettered confetti?”

“The what?” her mother asked.

“The confetti – it has letters on it, and…” Wendy realized she couldn’t begin to explain what she’d just been through.

“Oh. I didn’t realize that. It was sold by the ounce at the Smarty Party Store; I guess they recycle it. Honey, Harriet is honking outside. I’ve got to go. There’s a sale at Macy’s. Love you. Happy Birthday.”

Chagrinned, Wendy hung up the phone and turned back to face Xena.

“I think you can put the spatula down now,” Xena said.

Jo Lauer is a psychotherapist in Sonoma County by day. Her publications include essays, stories, articles, and two online novellas.

by Christine Falcone

There is a certain element of forgetting involved in being human.  Just to be able to function everyday, we must somehow overlook the fact that, as an example, we’re all going to die.  It’s this particular type of amnesia that I pray for every morning when I open my eyes, and remember that my daughter is dead.  Each day, the horrific knowledge of that fact hits me like a stun gun, like a nightmare from which I cannot wake, and I’m barely able to rise. Though it has gotten imperceptibly easier – or shall we say, more doable – over the past year, since she was run down in the crosswalk by a drunk driver while walking home from school.

Some days though, it’s just too hard.  I never make it out of bed.  But today, the phone is ringing, and I’m pretty sure I know who it is.  I answer on the third ring.

“Sylvia. You’re up.”  My sister’s voice is relieved.  I can tell she’s smiling.

“I was just lying here.”  The truth was, I was so hung-over, I could hardly focus on the red numbers of the digital clock’s display: 7:45.  This had been happening more and more frequently.

“We still on for today?”

“You called me last night, and I told you we were.”  I barely recalled our phone conversation the previous evening.  Had I been slurring my words when we spoke?

“Well good.  I’m just double-checking.  Keisha gets out at 2:45, and she’ll meet you on the corner near the bus stop.”

“You told me that already.”

“Okay, just reminding you,” she said.  “Jury duty should be over by five.  I’ll pick her up as soon as I’m done.”

“No problem.  See you then.”

It took a monumental effort to get myself out of bed and into the shower.  At first, all I could do was stand there under the spigot, eyes closed, and let the hot water wash over me.  I squirted a large amount of eucalyptus soap into my palm and used it to wash my body.  Its strong scent revived my deadened senses, and brought me back to the land of the living.  Knowing that I had to watch my sister’s foster child that afternoon gave me a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Once showered and dressed, I busied myself cleaning the kitchen.  There was a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, and empty bottles spilling out of the recycling container.  I carried them outside and dumped them in the blue bin.  Once the evidence was gone, I felt more legitimate, like I really was a responsible adult, someone whom one might trust to watch a fifteen-year-old girl for the afternoon.  (I’d told my sister that fifteen seemed a bit old to need watching, but she’d explained that, being in the foster care system, it was her responsibility to provide constant supervision for Keisha.)

Before I knew it, the morning had passed, and I’d managed to limit my alcohol consumption to two bloody marys.  They helped with my hang-over and steadied my nerves.  Soon, it was time for the local high school to let out, and I knew Keisha would be waiting for me.

On my way, I passed through the intersection where Abby was killed.  It had taken me months to be able to do this, and even now, an almost paralyzing grief rose to the surface every time I did.  People had set up a makeshift shrine with fake flowers and a statue of the Virgin Mary.  It was a sweet gesture, but I had yet to visit the little corner display, though I’d seen it photographed in the newspaper.  Each time I drove by the spot where my twelve-year-old daughter had been run down, a reel of images played in my mind, and I could see the whole thing as if I had witnessed it from above.  I didn’t want to see what I saw, wished I could burn those images from my mind as easily as igniting a stack of film reels.  I even visualized setting them on fire by dousing them with gasoline and striking a match.  But they were persistent and tormented me daily, probably would, I figured for the rest of my life.  Like the mother whose child was raped or tortured, I would never be able to shake from my mind the knowledge of what had been done to my baby.  It pecked at my insides like some demonic bird.

When I got to the public high school, the bell had just rung, and students who looked more like sherpas with their backpacks, poured across campus.  I spotted Keisha on the corner by the bus stop, just like Audrey had said, and pulled over to the curb.  She didn’t respond to the first honk of my horn, but the second time, she looked up with her big, doe eyes and started walking to my car.

She was a big girl for her age, tall and husky.  Her belly hung over the tight low waist of her jeans and jiggled slightly beneath her purple shirt as she walked.  Her skin was the color of dark chocolate, and her smile a dazzling white when she chose to share it, which wasn’t often.

“Hey,” Keisha said, depositing her enormous backpack in the back seat of my Jeep Cherokee.  She opened the passenger door and got in.  “Thanks for picking me up.”

We rode without talking for awhile, the radio, a buffer between us.   Then I asked her how her day was.

“Same ol’ same ol’,” she said looking out the window.  A few more minutes passed with just the sound of the radio.  When we passed through the intersection by Abby’s shrine she surprised me by asking, “You still miss her?”

Her words nearly knocked the wind out of me.  “Of course.  What kind of question is that?”

She turned to face me.  “Sorry I upset you, Miss Sylvia.”

Something in me softened and I remembered this child’s past.  She was no stranger to grief.  Her mother – the only parent she had ever known – had died shortly after Hurricane Katrina.  She’d contracted some kind of disease from the water.  “I still miss my momma, too.”

I felt something inside of me give way like an iceberg calving, and hot tears rose in my eyes.  We came to a red light, and I had to blink hard several times to keep them at bay.  My sister had told me how Keisha hadn’t even been to her mother’s gravesite.  There had been no funeral.  No memorial service.  The poor woman had died in the Superdome, and was one of many bodies they’d simply loaded on a truck and shipped out of state.

“Think you’ll ever get to her grave?” Keisha’s mother was buried in Colorado.

Keisha shrugged.  “Maybe.  One day.  But I know she ain’t there.  She’s right here.”  She put one hand flat against her chest. That, I understood.  Still, I couldn’t imagine not being able to visit Abby’s grave.  I tried to go there at least once a week.  Something about it gave me comfort.  In some small way, it was a link to her.

When we got back to my house, I offered Keisha a can of salted peanuts and a soda.  Not the healthiest of snacks, but it was what I had.  She took them both and settled in at the kitchen table to do her homework.

“Anything I can help you with?” I asked, secretly hoping she would say no, so that I could go fix myself a drink.

“Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“You any good at writing essays?”  Keisha threw back a handful of peanuts.

“Depends.  What’s it on?”

“We’re studying The Great Gatsby.  S’pose to write an essay about …lemme see,” she looked at her notebook, “…What characteristics do you believe define greatness?”

“Well that’s pretty broad.  Kinda hard to go wrong.  You can write just about anything.”  I sat down in the chair next to her.  God, I wanted a drink.

“I guess.”  She thought for a moment.  Then she said, “I don’t know if I get it.”

“Well, I think the teacher wants you to write about the qualities a person would need to possess in order for you to consider him or her a great person.”

Her big brown eyes swept over me and landed on a point in the room somewhere behind me.  “Someone can simply be a great person.”

“So, simplicity.  Is simplicity a quality of greatness?”

“I don’t know.”  She took a swig of soda.  “I guess, someone who carries on, despite the hard things in life.”  She thought for another moment and continued, “Someone who’s always got a smile on their face, and give as much love as they can.”

“That’s good, Keisha. Write that down.”

I was struck by her words.  She had known unimaginable hardship, yet here she was, sitting at my kitchen table, writing an essay for her high school English class.  From what Audrey told me, she was a good student who got herself up and dressed every day for school, and never gave her any trouble regarding drugs or boys or anything.  By her own definition, a great kid.  The kind of kid Abby was.  Sweet, thoughtful.

I’d been over it again and again in my head.  If only I’d kept her home that day.  If only I’d picked her up from school instead of having her walk home.  If only we’d done one tiny little thing different that day, maybe she’d still be here.  But she’s not.  And I have no one to explain to me why.  Why do these things happen?  Why my child?

When Keisha went to use the bathroom, I got up and walked over to the kitchen cabinet, the one that concealed my liquid relief.  I got out the bottle of whiskey and poured myself a shot, downed it and poured another.  I downed that one, too.  I was ready to pour a third, but I heard the bathroom door open.  Quickly, I put the bottle and empty shot glass back on the shelf, and shut the cabinet door.

When I rejoined Keisha at the table she said, “I smell liquor.”

I didn’t try to lie.  “You have a good nose, kid.”

“Smells like my momma used to smell.  That’s why they took me away from her.  If Katrina hadn’t killed her, the liquor probably would’ve.”  This was new information to me.  “You really shouldn’t drink,” she said, without looking up from her paper.

“Why not?” I asked, stung by her rebuke.

“Your sister.  She worries about you.”

“Look, I’ve got it under control.”  But even as I said it, a grandstand full of onlookers in my head was shouting bullshit!

Keisha looked up, her face full of doubt.   “Your daughter got killed by a drunk and you’re still drinkin’?”

I was speechless.  “How dare you!”

She sat back and crossed her thick arms across her purple bosom.

I pushed myself back from the table, grabbed my purse and stormed outside onto the back deck.  My heart was pounding so hard, I could almost hear it.  “Motherfucker,” I said under my breath, as I dug for the pack of cigarettes and lighter at the bottom of my purse.  Shaking, I lit one and inhaled deeply.  Tears streamed down my face.  I closed my eyes and let them come.  My back was to the sliding glass door, but I heard it open just as I was finishing my smoke.

“Miss Sylvia?”

“What, Keisha?” I said as harshly as I could.  She didn’t reply.  I turned around.  It was starting to rain.

Her chubby face was wet with tears, and her eyes were so big, I could almost climb inside.  “Will it ever go away?”

“Will ‘what’ ever go away?”  But even as I asked the question, the whiskey’s false warmth still coating the emptiness inside me, I knew what she meant.

“The ache.”  Her full lips quivered.

Christine Falcone’s award-winning writing and documentary film work has appeared in print and online, and has aired on public television and public radio. Her novel, This Is What I Know, was named as a finalist in the William Faulkner Wisdom Creative Writing Competition out of New Orleans in 2007.

Photo: “Doll in My Neighbor’s Yard” by Lydia Selk

by Benjamin Russack

“Just make sure she doesn’t fuck anybody.”  Tai worked the teeth of a comb across his fingers. “Alright?”

I listened to the uneven tick of the plastic tines. Better than anyone else, I knew why Tai was nervous. Nineteen, fierce, brunette Joyce often took breakfast with no one but herself, at a small shop by the Ponte Vecchio. In the early morning I had stood at the window as she slid from our pension, and breezed unescorted through the narrow Florentine alleyways. The sound of her high heeled boots always clipping through the low whistles of local Italians and Haitian Merchants. I suppose I was fascinated by her, this girl that no one could have. At fourteen, Joyce ran away from her parents and across the country—from Los Angeles to New York—and found work as a hairdresser. Three days ago Joyce made the inevitable announcement that she needed some distance, a break from the half a semester-long relationship. To my roommate’s credit, he managed to broker a compromise. Joyce was leaving for Barcelona tomorrow at nine a.m., and my ticket was already in Tai’s back pocket.

His eyes waited for my answer. I finally nodded.  Tai took a long breath, visibly relieved. Of course I would go with her. After our talk I went for a walk down to the piazza, past a worn statue of a Madonna and child, my hands stuffed into my pockets. Who was I to refuse a free vacation? Still, I wished that Tai didn’t trust me as much as he did. He knew how women hardly looked up when I entered a room, how I regularly stood at the end of our favorite espresso bar, waiting endlessly for my moment to speak up. On top of everything else, Joyce could take care of herself. I turned back towards home, slipping unnoticed through a thick crowd of tourists headed into the Duomo. All Tai wanted from me was my presence, a reminder that he was with her in the room.

Joyce stared out the window, the yellowing hills sweeping past. I sunk back into my seat, the train rumbling beneath me. I had tried talking about the weather, how the piercing Italian sun reminded me of California, but Joyce barely nodded, her hands laying motionless in her lap as they had for the past hour. I suppose that she resented my presence, and I couldn’t exactly blame her. Eventually my traveling companion dove into her purse and retrieved a mirror, tilting her face back and forth.

I stood, “You want anything?”

“Sure. Get me a coke,” she said, and twisted open a tube of excessively red lipstick.

I headed up the aisle and purchased a couple sodas from the dining cart. On the way back I stopped to survey a couple. A woman nestled into her lover’s shoulder and closed her eyes. I studied their interlaced hands, a finger exploring the curve of a knuckle. Growing up, I knew little of sex or dating. I never so much as saw my parents kiss. Dad would spend most of his time in his study, his head bowed, deep into a book. Mom was always out in the garden, crouched over her flowerbed and clutching a trowel. Neither of them even noticed my first, brief relationship in high school. She was a year older than me, and left for the east coast after graduation. I pictured her face, thin, pale, as though cut from fine stone. What I remembered most is that she liked my hair, the way it floated in wisps about my ears and forehead.

I approached our seats. Joyce was already causing waves; two olive-skinned men across the aisle delivered preliminary looks and whispered to each other. I wasn’t worried. I could probably turn this into a sport, walk up and down the cart taking bets on how quickly these guys would shut down. It made me wonder how a guy like Tai managed to lure a woman like Joyce. He wasn’t nearly as aggressive or classy as the typical dark Italian. Tai had been in the military, and before that worked on his father’s farm. He wasn’t even from one of the coasts. And here was Joyce, who could shout like a native for a martini, and wink at the bartender while brushing off gaunt, hungry looking men with the flick of a cigarette. Here was Joyce, who was from both coasts.

Still, there was something about Tai, a relaxed confidence in his stare, the cool way he flipped up his collar before going out. It took me a while to realize that when Tai spoke of his girlfriends back home, he wasn’t speaking of them in succession. “It was like having four apartments at once,” he winked, and stroked his thick stubble, “My dad’s farm is just where I got my mail.”

I stared at the drinks in my hand, my fingers growing numb from the icy, wet aluminum. Sometimes I wondered how my parents had managed to meet in the first place, like two blind and deaf people finding each other in a crowd. Why couldn’t I have been born into a different family, raised by people who could have at least pretended to know what they were doing? There was that documentary from school on a peculiar species of falcon. The male with the largest dot on his cheek received the most attention from the females. When the scientists painted out the dot, the male would be completely ignored.

I approached our seats and waited. I tried not to stare as my companion flattened a dark corkscrew of her thick hair, fanning it out across the back of her hand. She often played with her curls like that, especially when she was feeling sadistic. If Joyce had been a Falcon, her entire head would have been a dot.

Joyce finally looked up, and I handed over her coke. She smiled a little bit. Her lips glistened with fresh color, “Here’s for the drink,” she said.

An electric ping shot up my arm as she placed the small stack of coins into my palm. I paused, struck silent, frozen, as I often found myself, in one of those moments when I was allotted exactly one intervening comment, on the condition that I say precisely the correct thing.

I sat.

Joyce dug through her purse and closed it. She stared into her lap and sighed, palpably bored. She left and returned shortly with two frosted glasses, each wobbling with alcohol. She set them squarely on the tray before her. I laced my fingers into a tight cage. Besides promising that she wouldn’t fuck anyone, I had also assured Tai that his girlfriend would refrain from drinking. The woman in my charge sat back and tipped the entire contents of the first glass into her mouth.

Joyce was definitely drinking.

She settled back into her seat, and rolled her head towards me, her face coming to full view. “You know, I realize I’ve been a stone cold bitch for the past hour and a

half— ”

“No you haven’t—” I tried cutting in.

“—sure I have,” she sat up in her seat, leaning in as spoke, “but listen, I’ve actually been thinking about you.”

I straightened.

“No, really. And, well first of all,” she gulped the second martini,  “You’re a terrible chaperone. Secondly…” She slid her finger around the rim of the glass, “Secondly…you seem really…single,” she turned in her seat and squared off with me, her breath smelling faintly of alcohol. “Have you ever not been single?”

“Um…I had…one girlfriend.”

“For how long?”

“Couple months. In high school. She left the state after graduation.”

“Not even a Dear John Card?”

“No.”

I was quiet. I hated talking about it.

Joyce sat back pondering the ceiling. She pulled on a curl and let it bounce back.

“What a slut.”

“She said my hair reminded her of feathers.”

“Feathers?” Joyce leveled her gaze at my hairline, “You have got to be kidding,”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Well, I guess she had to attribute your sex appeal to something.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Hey, I’m joking,” she poked me in the arm. “Hey, Pooh Bear!”

I smiled. Suddenly, I was actually enjoying the conversation. Is this how men and women like Tai did it? It came so easily, like talking to an old friend. Joyce paused and peered into her empty martini.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I think I miss Tai,” she wiped a finger around the inside of the glass, as though cleaning it. “I honestly didn’t think it was possible. I dunno. Maybe I don’t. Should I miss him?”

“I’m not sure ‘should’ is the right word.”

“I suppose not.” Joyce’s nails clicked across her armrest. “You know what we fight about? I mean, like all the time?”

“What?”

“Sex,” she began gathering up her hair, curls spilling all over her hands. “I refuse to sleep with him. We get in all these arguments about it, but I’m like you know, Tai, I don’t even know who you are yet.” She secured the bun with a pencil, leaving the perfect number of thin strands to frame her large eyes. “I mean, what if he turns out to be some abusive asshole?”

“He seems nice enough.”

“So did my last boyfriend,” she crossed her arms. I said nothing. Joyce could summon or dismiss anything on legs; how could she possibly run into problems finding the man she wanted? I felt her shoulder press into mine as the train shifted directions. Another curve in our path and the sun flashed through the window. Joyce must have noticed me squint; she pulled down the slatted shade.

“So explain this haven’t-had-a-girlfriend-since-high-school-thing to me.”

I shrugged, “Maybe it’s my sex appeal.”

“Oh get off that. Besides, you’re a really good listener. Women love that shit. Especially foreign women.”

“Sure,” I stared into my empty coke, “and I know just enough Spanish to make myself completely misunderstood in Italian.”

Joyce laughed and pulled the pencil from her bun, shaking it out, her hair tumbling down her shoulders.

“You’re a pretty lonely guy aren’t you?”

I looked away. I didn’t say anything.

“Hey,” she punched me in the arm. “Hey Bear!” Joyce smiled again, “I’d flirt with you,” she said it softly, and gave my knee a slight squeeze.

With a lurch the train began to slow. We stood. I followed Joyce down the aisle, lugging our bags. We had arrived in Milan, where we would make the connection to Barcelona. The door slid open. Joyce turned, pausing before the mass of cool air and rushing bodies. Her perfect, round face wiped everything else out: the scattered noise, the bustle of suitcases and footsteps, Tai’s image now a small circle on the back of my mind.  Joyce reached out and lifted a strand of my hair with a finger. I remained still, and her smile filled me with a wonderful light.

We set our bags down in front of our cabin. It was a sleeper. No wonder Tai had fought for the presence of an escort. Any man in his position would have had nightmares about a woman like Joyce, loose on a train with a bed and a room to herself. I opened the door. It abruptly closed. I pushed again, but the entrance slammed back shut. Joyce stepped up and administered a solid crack with the toe of her boot. It finally swung in. What I could only describe as a fashionably ragged couple stood inside, smoking thin cigarettes, and regarding us calmly. Joyce crossed her arms as the man smiled through perfect, white teeth.  His name was Manuel.

“We have no a money, no a passaport,” He explained with open hands, “We just want to get to Espania, es okay?”

They wanted a ride. I crammed a fingernail into my palm and shouted at my brain to just puff up my chest and ring for the stout, cheerful conductor to kick them out. I opened my mouth, I closed my mouth. The prospect of spending ten hours in a room with Joyce had excited me. But before I could say anything, Joyce shrugged and gave them a ‘Why not?’ smirk.

Manuel was good looking, with a triangular torso, rippled arms, and torn jeans. He introduced us to Rosa, his unsteady companion, whose eyes flitted about the room, to myself, to Manuel, to the half open door. Rosa’s tangled, blond hair framed Vogue cheekbones. Her shirt appeared torn in a perfect arc from her rib to her hip, exposing a set of tan abs and a silver belly button ring.

The train began to move. Were we going to get in trouble? I looked for another reaction from Joyce, but she was busy hoisting her things onto the top bunk.  Manuel asked each of us where we were from, and if we would like a smoke. His hands were rough and oily, a thick scar crossed his right wrist. Rosa said nothing, and stood behind her companion, lank arms crossed. I heard footsteps. Manuel winked at me, and crouched behind the door. As though on cue, Rosa climbed up into the luggage compartment and gracefully curled into a ball, her yellow hair fanning across her knees.

The conductor didn’t appear to suspect anything, as I cracked the door and slid him our papers. After he was gone I sunk to the floor, in a corner really, and quietly told myself that I wasn’t angry or worried about how the situation had turned out. Manuel’s face poked out from behind the door, his eyes wide. He smiled.

“It is okay for us? We can come out?”

“Sure, come on out.” Joyce said.

Rosa’s feet appeared and she hopped to the floor. Manuel stood, and began to fish through his dusty leather jacket. He began to roll a cigarette and explained that he was headed to Barcelona to look for work, and to party.

He grinned. “So, are you serious boyfriend, girlfriend?” Manuel lit a match. We all sat around the bunk.

“No. I’m…Joyce is just…” I searched for it, the right words, “…giving me dating lessons.” I glanced at Joyce, but her eyes were fixed on Manuel, as though holding a question.

“Dating lesson? For tu? I am surprise,” he ashed over his knee. “You are very polite, good looking man. Maybe something you don’t have. If I think what, I give you.”

“He just needs to get laid a couple times.” Joyce remarked. I felt myself wince.

“Yes, your teacher are very smart.” Manuel smiled through ivory teeth. “You need the sex to get the sex.”

Rosa stood and slipped into the hall. We all waited, watching after her, until the door had shut.

“I find her Easter morning. She pass out on gutter. Sick, shaking, twenty pounds less than now. Very thin like all sticks.  I rescue, bring her back to health,” he said, and drew on his cigarette.

I stared out the window as they spoke, wishing the miles would go by faster.  Joyce appeared completely engrossed, nodding, smiling, making deft motions with her hands. Why had Manuel asked me about us? Wasn’t he with Rosa? Manuel directed his eyes up to our luggage compartment. Our thick bags clogged the space.

“Why do you Americans carry so much suitcases? Living with just your body to keep you safe makes you smarter, stronger!” Manuel clapped a hand to his shoulder.

“What do you carry?” Joyce asked him.

“Eight ounces of Cognac, wherever I go,” he smiled and produced a small, silver flask. “Keeps warm at night, and not hungry.” Joyce giggled. Giggled. I had never seen her do that. I bet Tai had never seen her do that.

The door cracked open. Rosa drifted in and crouched next to Manuel, whispering. She was slimmer than Joyce, with long, pale hands. Rosa’s severe look seemed perfected by the ragged clothes and blond tangles. I touched my hair, the useless thin ends that hung around my eyes and ears.

Rosa raised her voice slightly. Manuel shook his head.

“PaJALSTA….” Rosa’s eyes widened. Manuel sighed, reached into his coat and lay something small and white into her hand. She promptly left. I ran my fingers down my face, squeezed, and let out a breath. So now we were drug traffickers. In one swoop I had managed to betray Tai’s confidence, and possibly get everyone arrested. I watched the diplomatic proceedings, heard the crack of the judge’s hammer. Would I receive a lesser jail sentence if I turned us all in? Maybe Joyce would notice me again once we swapped out crowded suite for a quiet cell.

“Pajalsta?” I asked him.

“Means, ‘Please’,” Manuel seemed a little irritated, as though I had interrupted him. He buttoned his jacket pocket. “Ruski, yes? Russian. I know only a few words. Rosa teach me.”

I nodded towards the hall. “If she gets caught, will Joyce and I get in trouble?”

Manuel waved me away. “The worst they do is kick her from the train. Don’t be a frightened cat,” he winked. I felt vaguely diminished, just another luggage-carrying American, unable to dig myself out of desperate situations, or wander through strange cities with only my bare wits for survival. Manuel smiled at Joyce again, and I wanted to smash those perfect teeth.

For the next hour my back remained slunk against the wall, arms folded across my stomach, chin collapsed against my chest. My knees had become stiff from sitting. I had the worst of two worlds, the joints of an old man and the heart of a boy. How could I transform myself into a man like Manuel, who leaned back against the bunk, laughing and tapping his cigarette into a cup? I saw myself stealing off the train with Joyce, to some nearby town. We would peruse bazaars for food, slide fruit and other goods into secret pockets. For lunch we would spread out a tablecloth in a secluded alley, and lay bare the spoils: a bottle of wine, a thick wedge of cheese, dates, and a loaf of fresh bread. Is that what she wanted in a man? For now I could only listen to them talk, and there was no way in.

She climbed up to find her cigarettes. Without a word Manuel hooked a foot onto a rung of the ladder, and swung himself up onto Joyce’s bunk. They conversed in low voices. The cabin dimmed with the sinking sky.  Manuel sat very close to her, his dark, oily hands turning over as he spoke, touching her arm, her knee, her waist. I couldn’t hear their words, I didn’t want to. I did want to. I thought of Tai, pictured his face watching at the window, his mouth losing shape. But that wasn’t why I wanted them to stop.  In the half light their faces came together. I did nothing as the two forms sank into the sheets.

How long did I sit, curled, useless, listening to the slide of hands over skin, the soft pop of a kiss? Afterward came the sound of steady breathing, like someone asleep.  The silence was soon cut by the hallow thump of steps in the hall. Come in. Bust us. So what if we got caught. The door inched open and Rosa’s thin figure cut through the gloom. She didn’t appear to notice me as she crouched over Manuel’s jacket, turning out one pocket after another. Didn’t she care what he did? What kind of girlfriend was she? Maybe they both did this, commandeering rooms as they preyed on the hearts and bodies of young tourists. I studied the bunk, the comfortable lump of two enmeshed bodies. My mind retraced the steps that had led me into this situation: the contract with Tai, the train ride, the golden smile from Joyce. Someday, maybe, situations like this would come easily to me. But now I only knew to sit and wait, surrounded by events beyond my understanding.  I imagined the Falcon, just a baby, still curled in its egg womb, the dot on its cheek forming between translucent feathers.

Rosa rose from her dark project. Then she remained still, as though surveying the room, perhaps taking in what had happened. As she passed me she stopped, crouching, one hand holding the door ajar. Rosa looked directly at me, as though studying my face.  I hadn’t noticed it before; pock marks lined Rosa’s mouth, thin scars crossed her cheeks. A strong, warm hand found my arm, her voice and breath almost touching my ear.

“Tui Xorosho. Goot.”

“Good?” I whispered back.

“Yes. You. No worry all the day. You are very goot. No listen them. Any girl you want, want you.”  Rosa’s hand left my arm as she stood and slipped again into the hall.  I stared into the dark until the band of warmth had left my skin.

I walked without direction through the aisles, past doors locked shut for the night. Maybe pull the emergency alarm, the shiny blue lever at the end of each carriage.  Then alert the conductor that a rapist had broken into my cabin. Everyone would wake, the train would buzz with light and activity. I moved up the train, towards the dining cart, avoiding the overtly friendly attendant who swooped past me with a tray of wine glasses.  Wandering past the tables, I dumped myself into an open window seat.

“Prefiere el Pollo?”

A compact Italian stood above me with a pad and pencil.  His grin seemed too wide, too friendly, as though he knew all about the situation back in the cabin.

“Perhaps you would prefer the chicken?” The waiter leaned forward, speaking in  soft, slow English. Apparently he thought I hadn’t understood. Sure, pollo, whatever. You can even say it in Russian if you like. I nodded and leaned against the window, my nose and eyebrow pressed against the flat, cold glass. The waiter tucked his pencil away and smartly left. Soon the drumstick arrived, still red at the bone. I was too upset to eat. Rosa’s words remained distant, unintelligible. Any girl I want? Why not. Who knew why people wanted things. I poked at the undercooked meat with a fork.

After dinner I made my way back through the hall, holding the rail as the floor shifted easily from side to side. Now what? What had happened since I left? I stood before my cabin, the door had been left open just a crack. I hesitated before walking in, I had no idea what to do next.

“Perche? Perche?”  Manuel’s muffled voice begged in Italian. His plea was answered by Joyce’s harsh whisper.

“No, I told you. Just no,” Joyce hissed.

Well there was some surprising news; they hadn’t slept together after all. Was this the same speech she had given to Tai about sex? I took a light step forward, right onto a loose floor board. The creak quieted the voices inside. A moment later the door widened, and a naked arm snaked around the frame. Manuel stepped into the hall, sliding a shirt over his bare torso.

“What huh? What you gotta say?” Manuel whispered, moving towards me. He smelled of cigarettes and sour wine.  “You don’t like the way I talk to her?” He drew up his hand. I felt a hard poke below my belly, a cold energy that knocked against my spine. “Maybe I bring the vino and then I go fuck your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Maybe you want.” He grinned. A black sliver appeared at the edge of his gums, followed by a light click as he sucked his teeth back into place. “We both want. We both have.”

“No thanks.”

“You know nada,” he sneered.

“You don’t know what I know.” I whispered.

Manuel said nothing, his breathing quickened. Neither of us moved. Finally he snorted and walked around me, heading off towards the dining cart. I stood there, breathing the stale air that had contained him. At least a minute passed before I stepped through. Inside, the cabin smelled thick and warm. Then from an adjacent wall, the rustle of movement. Joyce sat up in bed, a sheet wrapped across her bare chest, curls framing her arms. In the dismal light, through the shadows, we watched each other.

She whispered, “I am so sorry about all this.”

Benjamin Russack’s work appears in various print and online publications. We are pleased to publish this piece, which we hope will  be the first of many for us. For more of Ben’s work visit his website at: http://benjaminrussack.com

by Sharon Walling

Lila, at nine was the younger of two sisters.  She laughed easily and had a heart bigger than her years. She played piano and sang and did both very well, thank you very much.  She was a good student, because school was not only a favorite pastime, it was an escape.But when she wasn’t in school, or doing chores, she had secret that she told no one, not even her mom and dad. It was that she as a mermaid.

At night, after she forced her dinner down, she’d excuse herself, hurry to her bedroom, shut the door and suddenly be transported to a watery wonderland where she could swim and float and be a mermaid.

It was only when she was a mermaid that she was beautiful. In the ‘dry’ world she was the talented one and her sister was the pretty one. When Lila looked in the mirror she only saw that she had ashy blonde hair and freckles. But she never noticed that her green eyes could rival Brazilian emeralds.

When Lila turned eleven, her sister turned thirteen and got breasts.  Lila was so flat and skinny, that all of her clothes bagged, while her sister’s clothes looked like they had been stitched to her curves. Boys looked at her and Lila was jealous. So she gave up being a mermaid, and became Marilyn Monroe. Under the covers at night, she’d close her eyes hard, and she would see herself with lovely breasts and silky undergarments, and the cutest boy in her class would be rescuing her from some great danger. Or, maybe he’d just accidently see her in her sexy, chartreuse, lace-trimmed slip. And fall immediately in love with her. Her dreams told her she was mermaid-pretty and had Marilyn Monroe breasts.

Then Lila followed her sister to high school. Her sister was popular there. Who wouldn’t be with big breasts and eyeliner? But their mom said Lila wasn’t allowed to wear makeup yet. Lila believed she was uglier in high school than ever. Only the redheaded boy liked her. Jack Kenney: bad skin, glasses, plaid pants and teeth so far apart that they didn’t know each other.

The richest girl in the school, Jennie Lou, was in Lila’s English class. Jennie Lou was beautiful and wore expensive clothes. Jennie’s pale blonde hair was never out of place, and she never had a pimple. She also had breasts. Jennie Lou didn’t wear bobby socks and poodle skirts─ she wore slim hugging skirts with matching sweaters, and tiny black patent flats with little bows. Her purse matched her shoes. The ribbon in her hair was made out of the same material as her skirt. Lila decided to become like Jennie Lou. She tried to make friends with her, but that was like trying to move Appalachia to Rodeo drive. Jennie Lou was a cheerleader.  Athletes and cheerleaders ran for school office. The shy and ugly kids joined the choir.

So, Lila became an alto.

But, a miracle occurred when Lila was seventeen. During that summer she grew breasts. In just three months, she went from a set of nipples to a C cup. In her senior year, she became popular with the boys. She went to dances with the hopeful adolescents, dyed her hair deep red, and only wore her glasses in the classroom. Nonetheless, Lila was a good girl, a virgin. She never had a steady boyfriend. The beautiful girls were still cheerleaders, the ugly ducklings still in the choir, and now semi-beautiful girls took modern dance.

For the spring talent fest, Lila choreographed Sea Dreams, a dance with five mermaids. She made the costumes with the fish tails covered in green glitter.  Everyone clapped. Some people told Lila what beautiful legs she had. She felt pretty.

After graduating, Lila got a job with a finance company, met a guy. He told her she was beautiful, even with her glasses on. Most of the time he was nice, but sometimes he would make fun of her, because this was the sixties, and the sixties it was believed that you tease the people you like.

They got married. It was a small wedding. As she approached the altar, deserving of the white dress she wore, (because in the sixties, they believed that white was only for virgins) she wondered if like her mermaid dreams, she was only pretending to be a bride.

Lila and her new husband moved away from her family. And in that new place, she worked to become the perfect wife.

But after a few years, her husband quit saying “I love you,” and “you’re beautiful.”  She had a baby and he called her fat.  It was when they went to dinner for their anniversary, and he seemed too friendly with the cocktail waitress, (who wore eyeliner) that she figured it out: He was seeing someone.

On a Monday while he was at work, Lila bleached her hair platinum blonde and bought a leather halter top with the front cut in deep V. It was the first time she showed her cleavage outside the bedroom. When her husband saw her he said ‘Wow!  You should have done this a long time ago.”  Then she really felt like Marilyn Monroe, ready for romance and raw sex.

He ran his fingers through her hair and said, “I want you to file for divorce as soon as possible. I’m leaving.”

After that, Lila began to hate her body. Her boss would stand close enough to nudge his arm against her chest. She would find notes written between the men in the office commenting on her big breasts.

Marilyn Monroe died that year and Lila understood why.

Once again, she just wanted to be a mermaid.

I Could Have Danced All Night by Lydia Selk

A short story by Susanna Solomon

At seventeen, Christy St. Claire had been a virgin long enough. All of her friends had made it with guys, but she hadn’t, no, not yet. Having a boyfriend was a big deal for her, but that wasn’t the point, not really. It was this goddamn virginity, and it was in her way. It was time she joined the club.

Roberta Ann had told her she really wasn’t a woman until she’d lost it. Maybeth, in her history class, had lost hers in the back seat of a 1954 convertible, out in the country by Lincoln. That had taken guts. But Christy, she wasn’t that bold. In her dad’s big kitchen, looking out at the barn through the kitchen window, she stirred her coffee with an old swizzle stick dad had brought home from one of his business trips, and started to formulate a plan.

Wednesday, after art history class, where she had fallen asleep watching slides to the drone of Mr. Abernathy’s voice discussing French Impressionism, which she knew by heart – her father wasn’t an art collector for nothing – she stopped by the bathroom on her way home. All the other girls were primping, curling their eyelashes, putting on gobs of eye shadow to meet boys. Her boys. Christy wasn’t into all that stuff – and why should she be? All the girls were going to her house, to hang out with her older brothers, Ray and Fred, and all their friends. To them and all her brother’s friends she was always going to be their little sister. Forever. She wasn’t going to meet any guys that way. She took off for the square.

Christy was pretty, real skinny, with sharp features and blond hair that ran down her back. She walked with a distracted air, and not wanting to waste time by just walking, she read while she walked, often Faulkner and Hemingway, and sometimes jamming her toes into the misaligned bricks in the sidewalks of Cambridge and coming to a stop, but heck, she didn’t care. She liked books, she liked being absorbed in books. She’d gone through all the authors in her dad’s ‘Limited Edition Club’ collection; and when he was out of town on business, she and her brothers had found his secret stash of porno in one of the wooden chests in the attic. That had consumed them for hours. Some of the books were in French, so they learned some very interesting words, which turned out to not be so popular with her French teacher. As she walked, she tried to remember the plot of The Story of O.

On her way under the elms and wide oaks that littered the side streets, she considered the possibilities. There was this one guy, A—, who worked nearby. He was twenty-nine, and had the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen. And he liked her. They had been kissing last weekend, out on a pier on the Vineyard, and it felt wonderful. She had been so excited that he’d been so interested in her and so much older, and they were having a pretty good time at a party until someone came around the corner and stopped everything. She tried to remember exactly where he worked. On some side street somewhere, near Linnaean Street. She meandered around.

Her girlfriends had told her it was wonderful, that it made them want to explode inside, and that they were in love and stuff. She didn’t really believe in love, but she wouldn’t have minded being held, even for a little while, and seeing ‘A’ again. Maybe later he would call her or invite her out, even, and maybe make her feel special, but she’d never had a date. Ever. She loved that titillating feeling she got from her father’s books, and from hearing from Maybeth and Roberta Ann. And from the way A’s mouth had felt on hers.

Back by Leslie’s house, between Mass Ave and the Square, she pulled up beside a trailer, one of those places where Harvard had kept their ROTC offices after they were thrown off campus. A’s office. She swept her hair off her forehead and stepped inside.

It was cool. Her footsteps rattled on the hollow floors. She stepped around a corner, and there was a receptionist, her brown hair cut short and cat’s eyes glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. Christy was sure she was going to tell her to go home.

“A?” the receptionist answered, punching a red button on a black rotary dial phone. “He’s in the back, in the darkroom.”

Christy held her purse tight against her belly and wondered what the hell she was doing, in his office, on a hot Friday afternoon, going after a man she liked in such a bold way.

Halfway down the hall she stopped, changed her mind. She was not ready. She just wanted to see him, have a kiss or something, finish what they had started in the vineyard. As for anything more, that would have to wait. He was twelve years older, way too old. She wasn’t ready for that big step, not yet, not with someone she hardly knew. She found the darkroom, took a deep breath and knocked.

A was loading film into a camera, setting up a strobe light and bouncing a tennis ball against a table when she entered. The place was dark: dark walls, dark floors, no windows. He smiled when he saw her, gave her a hug. She was right to have come by for a visit, he said.

He was setting up a shot, he told her, to show the trajectory of a tennis ball for a Harvard Physics book they were developing for high school students. Christy would be perfect, A said, to be a part of the book. Did she swim? he asked, his blue eyes widening and filling with warmth. Did she want to model for the textbook? She would have to sign a release and everything.

Christy nodded. She would do anything for that kiss. He was so hot. She could feel his breath on her, his scent filled the air, desire tickled her insides. “Sure,” she said.

“Now, watch,” he said, putting his arm around her and turning on the strobe.

Flash! A bright light went off in her eyes, blinding her. Flash! Again.

“Now the tennis ball.” He threw it up in the air. Flash! Then the click, click, click of the camera taking its shots.

She opened her eyes. She could see one tennis ball, then another and another, a microcosm of the world, in yellow, bright as the sky against the dark. “Now, again,” he said, starting the shot again and throwing the tennis ball. Flash! Flash! Flash! The tennis ball seemed suspended in air, lively and joyful, and the light was so bright she had to close her eyes against it, it hurt, so much of it, and with her eyes closed, in the dark, she felt something brush then land on her mouth.

Oh, it was him. His mouth. Behind her eyelids the light continued to flash, bright, a thousand times a second, it seemed, but nothing compared to the speed of her heart.  And she was wet like those girls in her dad’s magazine, wet down there, not an altogether unpleasant experience, feeling that, on a Friday, in an office, and she was so excited as his tongue filled her mouth, open as she was to his explorations. His arms soothed her back as he brought her close. Flash! went the lights as the tennis ball bounced to oblivion in the corner and the camera kept clicking away behind them, and his hands explored further, further down, down there, down where the wetness was, and he was hers, this guy, he cared for her, as no one ever had, and his fingers went in probing, probing as she was leaning up against the table and her skirt was pulled high, and then something else went in, and it hurt.

She couldn’t believe it, not at first, that he would take the chance, in an office, and he kept hurting her, and she was afraid, she was going to get pregnant or something and she didn’t know what to do, should she stop him and he felt so good, upstairs, kissing her, exploring and the pain kept going, now mixed with the edge of the table digging into her back, but her girlfriends said you’ll get to used to it, it will feel great, but she wasn’t sure, and he kept at it until they heard a pounding on the door, a great big pounding on the door, the noise above and beyond the clicking of the camera and the flashing of the strobe, and he stopped finally, and said, in a bit of a yell, “Just a minute,” he said and zipped up his pants and disappeared out the door.

Two years later, when she came home from college for the weekend, she pried open the lock on her dad’s liquor cabinet door – dad was out of town on business again – and she and Maybeth and Roberta Ann had made lousy Singapore Slings and bad martinis until they got so drunk they just giggled around the kitchen table, chewing on swizzle sticks, and playing true confessions, and they all told stories about their first time, but no one could beat Christy’s story about the darkroom, not even Maybeth in the car, on the back seat of a convertible, in the middle of Lincoln common on a hot and sultry Saturday afternoon.

She fumbled in her purse for a tissue to wipe her son’s nose. Before she could find it he sneezed again, sending a glob of snot down the front of his freshly ironed shirt. She sighed. So much for first impressions.

“Mommy, my nose is running,” he said.

“I know honey, hold on. Mommy is getting a tissue. NO! Don’t wipe it with your sleeve… oh hell. Where is that tissue?”

She felt her blood pressure rise as she continued to look for a tissue. Finally she settled on a shirt from her gym bag. She leaned into the backseat and cleaned up her son as best she could.

Seeing the cross look on his mother’s face, he said, “I am sorry mommy. I didn’t mean to.”

She felt a stab of guilt. She had been wound so tightly this week. Obviously at four years old he wasn’t too young to notice. She hadn’t meant to take it out on him.

She softened her face into a half-smile, saying, “I know sweetie, mommy is just in a hurry. I was hoping we could keep you somewhat clean for an hour. Oh well, we’ll just have to make do.”

She put her car into reverse and backed out of the driveway. The mechanical voice of the GPS system began to tell her what turns to make. She had 15 minutes to get to the appointment. The school was only 10 miles away, but who knew what traffic would be like on a Wednesday morning at nine? She sighed again, trying to release the tension in her shoulders.

She looked in the rear view mirror and saw a sweet cherub face staring out the window quietly. She wondered what was going through his mind. She felt a pang in her chest looking at him. His lips were downturned in sadness. It was hard on them both since his father passed away. That had been nearly a year ago. Now she was headed back to work for the first time since her son had been born. He had to get into this school. This interview was key.

“Turn right in 1.5 miles.”

Thank God for the invention of GPS. Her husband had always been the one to drive. She was horrible when it came to directions. She pulled into the parking lot on the visitor’s side. She unbuckled herself, grabbed her purse, and picked up the slip of paper with the principal’s name on it: Mr. Johanson.

They walked down the long quiet hall. The clicking of her heels seemed much louder than she would have liked. She held his hand so tightly he said, “ouch mommy!” Losening her grip, she looked at the office directory in the lobby. Mr. Johanson – Suite 300b.

They walked up the winding staircase. The school smelled like old books and wood polish. It was an old building. She remembered driving past it when she was a little girl. This was the first time she’d ever actually been inside. It was beautifully preserved, giving off the air of learning and seriousness. It was hard to imagine her little boy spending his days here. For the hundreth time, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. Did he really need any more change in his life? Did she?

She knocked on the door and heard a deep but friendly voice say, “Come in.”

She poked her head around the door and asked, “Mr. Johanson?”

“Yes, can I help you?”

She walked the rest of the way into the office, gently guiding her son by the hand. She was stunned into silence for a moment. The man sitting behind the desk had the warmest eyes she had ever seen, which led her directly to his smiling mouth and firm lips. Her first thought was “We didn’t have principals like him when I was in school or I would not have had a problem going each day.” She flushed at this thought, stammering, “I, uh, we have an appointment.”

“You do? Well I don’t see it in my calendar here. I’m not typically in the office on Wednesdays. But please do come in.”

“Oh goodness. I am so sorry. I confirmed with your secretary last week.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was just finishing up. If you don’t mind waiting one moment, I’ll be right with you. Why don’t you and the boy have a seat right there? I’ll only be a moment while I finish this email.” With a friendly gesture towards a comfortable seating area in the corner of the office, he turned back to his computer and began typing.

She led her son to the couch and they both sat down. She saw tissues on the table in front of her and handed one to her son so he could wipe his nose again. As she took deep breaths, she stared at the back of Mr. Johanson. Broad shoulders. Good posture. She could see his muscles through the soft blue dress shirt he was wearing. She suddenly wondered if his eyes were that same blue.

She shook her head to clear these inapproprate thoughts. She looked at her son and smoothed some errant hairs. He looked up at her with wide eyes, obviously intimidated by the formal office. She smile reassuringly to him although she felt a bit intimidated as well.

After a moment, Mr. Johanson stood up from his desk. He cleared his throat and joined them. He sat on a supple leather chair across from her. He looked directly into her eyes. A feeling of self-conciousness swept over her. She wished she had applied fresh lipstick before getting out of the car. Why didn’t she wear her hair up instead? She could feel her curls frizzing from the late summer humidity.

“So where were we? You said you had an appointment and my secretary carelessly forgot to mention it to me.” He chuckled and leaned comfortably back in the chair.

His eyes were the exact blue of his shirt! Her faced flushed. What was going on with her? She was acting like a school-girl. Trying to compose herself, she cleared her throat and began to speak. “I know we are late trying to register for the school year, but my husband died last fall and our life has been a bit disjointed since then.” She smiled slightly to keep him from interuppting with his condolences, as most people did at this point, and then continued to speak. “Orginally I had planned to homeschool my son until he was at least in third grade. However under our present circumstances, I find myself needing to return to work fulltime, so it’s no longer possible. I believe strongly in the importance of education and want my son to have the best one possible. Your pre-K program is the best in the county and I was hoping you would make an exception to your enrollment deadlines and let him be considered for your fall registration.”

She smiled and took a deep breath. Mr. Johanson was sitting back listening to her with calm interest. He didn’t give her an expression of pity like she was accustomed to. She was relieved by this, but also disconcerted. Did this mean he wouldn’t feel for her situation and allow them to enroll passed the deadline? She sat up straighter when he shifted his wieght on the chair and began to address her. He almost looked amused.

“Ms. ??”

“Lucille, erm, Lucy. You can just call me Lucy. This is my son Aiden.”

“Okay. Lucy. I think there must be a mix-up here.”

Alarm shot through her. What did he mean a mix-up? Her expression must have been clearly puzzled as he continued.

“I am the President of the school. Not the principal. Mr. Johnson, our principal, handles enrollments and registrations.”

A bright red flush ran up her face from her neck as she looked down at her hastily scribbled note. Why, yes, she could see now that it could have been “Johnson” instead of “Johanson.”

“Oh my goodness! I am terribly sorry. And we interrupted you! I am so mortified.” She scrambled to get up and gather her purse and son. She was flustered and realizing that she was now very late for her appointment with Mr. Johnson. She so badly wanted to make a good impression and now she had messed everything up. How typical of her. She could feel tears stinging the back of her eyes.

Mr. Johanson stood up when she did, but leaned towards her and put his hand on her shoulder. “No, please sit back down. I think I can help you.”

Tentatively she sat down. She was still flustered, but feeling defeated by her own mistake. Her son looked at her with confusion in his eyes.

“Hey buddy, you want a sucker? I have some in that drawer right over there. You can go get one if you want.”

Aiden looked at her, “May I mommy?”

“Yes dear, of course.”

She sighed and sat a little deeper into the couch. Her head was pounding. She must have looked exhausted. Mr. Johanson studied her. She was very attractive, despite the deep frown lines on her forehead and the grim set to her mouth. She also looked like she hadn’t slept well… there were dark circles under her eyes. He felt an instinctive need to help her.

Normally he didn’t get involved with the parents of the school. He left that to Mr. Johnson. However, Mr. Johnson was a man of strict routine, and he knew that he would not look into the eyes of this mother and feel sympathy for her situation. Likely he would enjoy telling her that she was too late to get her son into the school for the Fall.

“Ms… er, I mean Lucy. I know Mr. Johnson very well, and I have to say, he’s not a man to break rules. However, I can see you are in a difficult situation and your son has impeccible manners for a young man his age. I think I might be able to help persuade Mr. Johnson to making an exception in your case.”

It would probably cost him, if Mr. Johnson had anything to do with it. Johnson would not be persuaded easily. His mind wandered to the box of cubans he had in his desk drawer. They were saved for special occassions. Well, they might go a ways in tempting the principal to meet his request for this attractive young mother.

“You realize this is a highly academic school though, right? This is not a day care. While we have a extensive curriculum to exand the imaginations and culture of our students… it is about learning.”

“Yes sir. That’s why I am so set on having Aiden here. I have heard wonderful things about your school and feel it would be the best place for him. He’s a very serious and somber child that thrives on routine. Even before… well, even before our lives changed so drastically.”

Concern for her and Aiden showed in his eyes as he looked at the boy quietly staring out the window.

“You don’t think he would be better in an environement more prone to play and amusement?”

“Look at him Mr. Johanson… do you think he would fit in? In an environement like that? No, I am sure that this school is exactly what he needs.”

“Well then. I will speak with Mr. Johnson today and give you a call at the end of the week.” He stood and put out his hand to shake hers. She rose from the couch with a look of relief and gratitude in her eyes. She could feel a year’s worth of stress and tension release from her shoulders almost at once. And then when her hand touched his, a shock of electricity warmed her all over.

His hands were suprisingly calloused for a man that sat behind a desk all day.

He felt the same jolt at her touch and immediately felt the urge to hug her, although he’d just met her. Something protective within him wanted to give her more comfort and reassurance. But he didn’t want to be too forward and scare her away. Something in her eyes reminded him of a skittish doe.

He put his other hand on her as they shook, looked deep into her eyes and told her that everything was going to be just fine. Leave it to him.

Although she had just met him, she felt that she could trust him. For the first time in a long time, she really did feel like everything was going to be okay.

Last 5 posts by Miranda Krebbs

• Single Parent Dating - August 17th, 2009
• A Moment for Mom: A Valentine’s Story - February 1st, 2009
• Blackberries, Big Wheels, and “Bleachy Mama” - September 1st, 2008
• Tighter ~ Coping with Depression, Part II - June 1st, 2008
• Beautiful Stolen Goods - June 1st, 2008

“What you need is a vacation.”

Sixty-fifth Assistant glanced at his boss through the corner of his eye, sneaking a peek at the boss’s reaction to his suggestion. Noting with no small amount of relief that the boss was still sitting calmly behind his desk, he dared to add, “Perhaps somewhere near Capricus Prime or the Wormhole.”

“No, no, no!” The boss coughed, then spat a glob of what looked like tapioca pudding into a chrome receptacle designed expressly for the purpose of collecting just such disgusting things.

“My apologies, sir, I only–”

“Vacations are too intense,” the boss croaked. “Too much to do. I need peace and quiet. I need to relax. A vacation, my dear Sixty-fifth Assistant, is the last thing I need!”

“But sir, certainly a cruise through the Gossamer Nebula would be far more relaxing than your average day running this prison.”

The boss lit a cigar. Blue smoke enveloped his massive, horned head as he considered Sixty-fifth Assistant’s logic. Finally he said, “Either something is relaxing or it isn’t. Running this psychotic zoo isn’t relaxing and neither is a nebula cruise.”

“But a cruise is less stressful than–“

“Degrees of relaxation are irrelevant!”

“But–“

“Have you ever been on a cruise through the Gossamer Nebula?”

“Well, no, sir. I never earned enough to afford such a–“

“Then how do you know if it’s relaxing?”

“Well, I had to assume that if people were willing to pay that kind of money to–”

“When you assume, you make an ass out of yourself. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?” The boss looked sardonically down his lumpy nose at his assistant.

“Out of you and me.”

“What!?” The boss spat another milky glob into the receptacle. A small amount of lumpy spittle snapped back and stuck to his upper lip. He failed to notice.

“Well, I always heard it was when you assume you make an ass out of you and me,” said Sixty-fifth assistant, trying very hard not to look at the disgusting goop clinging to the boss’s face. “It’s a play on the spelling of–”

“Are you saying that I’m an ass because you assumed something?” The goopy glob jiggled as the boss spoke.

“No, sir, I just meant–”

“Because I’m your superior, I’m automatically implicated in all of your screw-ups, is that it?”

“That’s ridiculous. I was only–”

“Oh! So now I’m ridiculous!” The boss was so enraged and tense that his head started to shake.

The vibration shook the glossy spittle and before he could stop himself, Sixty-fifth Assistant heard himself shouting, “Well, yes! Yes, you are! With that dollop of what I hope is only phlegm on your face, you do look quite ridiculous!”

The boss leapt to his feet, his face turning from gray to puce in an instant. He snatched an object from his desk that looked a lot like a pocket calculator except that it had about ten times as many buttons. He pressed one of the buttons — the triangle-shaped one — and a collar around Sixty-fifth Assistant’s neck suddenly started to hum. Sixty-fifth Assistant made a squeaky noise, a little red light blinked on the collar, and an instant later the collar fell to the floor as its wearer was replaced by a column of mist that smelled remarkably like a combination of curry and rotten cucumbers.

The boss slumped back into his chair with a disgruntled sigh. After he had finished his cigar and the mist that was once his assistant had finally dissipated, he dialed an extension into the prison intercom. The voice of a clerk in the human resources department politely acknowledged him.

“Yes, yes, good afternoon. This is Warden Magalug.” He was still trying to calm down and he chose his words very carefully. “It appears I am in need of an assistant.”

“What happened to the one we sent up last week?” inquired the clerk.

“Well, er, you see…” Magalug paused. He knew he needed to word things just right or else being denied another assistant would be the least of his worries. Even though assistants were just inmates who happened to be on good behavior and thus allowed to work in the office rather than the dung vats, the human resources department frowned upon vaporizing them in a fit of rage. Once you had burned through your first fifty, they kept a pretty close eye on you. “Well, he… that is to say, I…”

“The system indicates his appliance was activated.”

“Well, yes, it was appliance.” thought Magalug. Heh, heh, I’ve always loved that one.

“What was the reason for activation?”

“He tried to escape.”

“Escape? Really?”

“Why, uh, yes, yes indeed. He, uh…” This was going to be tricky. Magalug did not consider himself a very skilled liar. “He was doing the vacuuming, you see, and he was vacuuming behind my desk, okay, and I was very busy at my work, right?”

“How did he try to escape, Warden?” The clerk’s tone was crisp.

“Well, I was very busy, you see, and I didn’t realize… that is… he threw the cord around my neck and I was quite fortunate to have gotten hold of my activator before he was able to kill me!”

“I see. Do you need a physician sent up?”

“No, no. Just another assistant. I’ll be fine.”

“But you just said you were lucky to have escaped death.”

“Yes, but, you know, we Sloggians are, well, very resilient. Heal up quick. I shouldn’t need to take up a physician’s valuable time.” Had his species been capable of perspiration, beads of sweat would definitely have been covering Magalug’s forehead.

“Very well, suit yourself, Warden. I shall log this under code 321-V: Vaporization Due To Violent Escape Attempt. Your new assistant will be up shortly.”

Magalug switched off the intercom. He sat at his desk, staring at the ashtray his niece had made for him in her taxidermy class. He tried to recall just exactly what it was that Sixty-fifth Assistant had said that had gotten him so upset. But for the life of him, he simply couldn’t remember.

There was a knock at his office door. Magalug stood up and walked around to the front of his desk as Sixty-sixth Assistant walked in.

“Greetings, Sixty-sixth Assistant,” said Magalug, “I’m sure you’ll find working for me much less torturous than those disgusting dung vats.”

“Perhaps,” replied Sixty-sixth Assistant. “But since we’re on the subject of disgusting things, I might mention that you have a little something on your lip.”