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 The first day on the raft I missed you. The second, I tried to accept the fact you were gone. On the third day I believed you were beside me, holding my hand, running your fingers through my hair as you fell asleep with your head against my chest. On the fourth day I spoke to you—constructed sentences of rage, passion, and apology. On the fifth day you were gone. As I slept your transparent presence slipped into the night air and went off in search of whatever it is the dead are supposed to do.

On the sixth day I tried to forget about you completely and think only of survival while my eyes attempted to focus on the unending blue horizon. But I remembered the things we said we would do if you were here. I told you once I would open a vein for you and watch in erotic delight as you placed your lips around the open wound and transferred my blood to your body. You told me you would slice off a portion of your calf for me and slip it onto my tongue.

“Like carpaccio,” you said.

But there is no carpaccio, no vein to open. There is only the Pacific, the sun, and the moon to keep me company as I wonder what life, if there is to be any at all, will be like when I get to shore.

There is a duffle bag on the raft, the one we filled together for situations such as these. In it are cans of food, solar stills, emergency flares, and other means of survival. We argued about what we should put in it. You said we should have a bible.

“You don’t believe in God,” I told you.

“If I’m stuck on a raft in the middle of the ocean I’ll start,” you said.

We searched the house for a bible but came up empty. We contemplated spending the night at a cheap hotel and stealing the copy next to the bed, but you found a black bound copy of Moby Dick and put it in the bag instead.

“It looks like a bible,” you said.

Neither of us had read it before, but I’m reading it now. I consider myself Captain Ahab, you Ishmael, and the whale the thing that keeps us apart.

On the seventh day I made friends—large fish with big heads, colors of blue and silver across their brows, who seemed to gain immense pleasure from bumping their heads against the side of the raft. I watched them throughout the day trying to figure out if it was defense or affection that kept them coming back. Some of them swam off into the distance, turned around, and came towards the raft like kamikaze pilots. Others circled me slowly, occasional rubbing their large heads against the sides off the raft as if settling in next to a lover.

On the eighth day I killed one. I took the spear gun from the duffle bag, knelt with it near the edge of the raft, and waited. Several of them came towards me from a distance, striking the raft with their torpedo-shaped heads and then swimming off into the distance before my spear had a chance to even touch the water. I waited, watching the ones filled with rage and fury ram into me. And then one of the others came, innocently approached the raft, his long tail swayed back and forth without worry or urgency. He placed his head against the raft near my knees. The tail continued moving slowly, the fish pushed himself into the large mysterious creature he had discovered. He looked up with one wandering eye as I fired the spear into his belly. The water turned red, the eye fluttered and the tail that had moved so slowly began to thrash in the water in an effort to escape the metal that had violated its body. I waited, holding the string attached to the spear as he tried to escape. His friends swam away, as if they were ashamed that one of their own had been so stupid and naïve as to trust an intruder in their pure world.

When the tail ceased to move I brought him into the raft and watched his gills open and close as he lay dying on the floor of the raft. I took my knife, put it through the eye and brought the bleeding socket up to my lips. There is fresh water inside the eyes of fish. You told me that once as you watched a nature show at night. I didn’t believe you.

I filleted the fish. I opened his belly over the side of the raft and watched his insides slowly sink to the bottom. Greens, blues and reds, things that once made him alive now danced uselessly down into the ocean. I cut thin strips of meat from his tail and hung them to dry in the sun. I wanted to use his bones for something so I could say I hadn’t killed him in vain, but I thought they would pierce the raft so I threw them overboard and watched them float hollow and silent out to sea.

The meat tasted like sushi we once ate together.

On the ninth day I thought of someone else. She was a woman I did not know, but had seen every day for a year. She worked in a store on Ninth Street that sold water pitchers, plates, glasses and dresses. The store was on the corner and had windows all around it. She would sit in one of the windows, amongst the plates and glasses, staring out into the world like a cat in the windowsill, its tail slowly moving back and forth, its eyes fixed upon something only it could see.

I would pass her on my way to lunch, at the same time, at the same place every day. She was older, with red hair, and a body that must have been firm at one time, but now required the assistance of tight, form-fitting clothes to keep everything adequately displayed. She wore too much make-up—bright reds on the lips, and greens over the eyes. After seeing her for three months I waved. She waved back.

Occasionally the plates, glasses and her hair would change with the seasons. I never saw anyone else in the store, and I never went in. And if the light at the corner was red, I would stare at her not knowing what else to look at. She would remain unfazed; looking at whatever it is cats in the window look at in the middle of the day.

One day I looked into the store and it was empty. Its white shelves and walls deserted, as if the unsold and unappreciated objects had got up and walked out on their own, hoping to have better luck at a different store. I never saw the woman again.

When she was gone I fantasized about her. I imagined that I had entered the store at lunch and without a word she led me to some unseen room in the back where we had forceful, anonymous sex. And when we finished she resumed her post at the window and I left, closed the door softly in an effort to preserve the silence and stillness that existed inside. The fantasy never changed, and occasionally, afterwards, I felt as if I had committed some sin against the unknown woman.

The raft slowly passed her store on Ninth Street. She waved me inside, forgave me, and we indulged in the lunchtime ritual I once imagined so well.

On the tenth day you returned and accused me of being with someone else. You sat across from me on the raft and refused to speak. I told you about the fish, how I had drank from the eye socket, and I told you that you were right—there was fresh water inside. You turned away, your face looking out into the endless ocean.

I told you about the solar stills, the ones we had bought together at the Army-Navy store. I inflated them until the words Army Surplus were visible on the sides, and let them bounce in my wake slowly transforming the unusable ocean into fresh water. On a good day, when the sun is bright and the sea is calm, I can extract almost two cups of drinkable water, which they say is more than enough to live on.

“It tastes like the inside of an old clam,” I told you.

You didn’t respond, and slowly began to disappear into the mist of salt water created by the light of the moon.

The raft is eight-feet by four feet, bright orange, with a floor that feels like a waterbed without enough water. It is shaped like a hexagon, its borders formed with large cylindrical tubes that inflated automatically as our boat went down. There is a tarp I can pull over the raft when it rains, or when the sun seems intent on infiltrating my every pore. It is like a convertible we rented once.

When we bought the raft, the sign above it said it was a raft for two. There was a picture on the box it came in with a suntanned couple sitting in the raft, with slight smiles on their faces, as if they knew they had just cheated death.

“They look like they’re on vacation,” you said.

On the eleventh day I took inventory. There was the copy of Moby Dick, the solar stills, a small journal and pencil in a plastic bag, a can-opener, a spear gun, five cans of assorted beans, pastas and soups, a flare gun with five flares, a knife, a compass, and some matches. In the bottom of the duffle bag was a tampon and I wondered when you had put it there without my noticing, and if its presence would somehow contribute to my survival.

In the journal I wrote you letters. I told you how I always hated it when you slipped into bed, in your own silent world and drifted effortlessly into sleep while I stayed up wondering what it was I had done to make you pretend that I was not there. In them I told you how good it felt when you slipped into bed and silently began the soft caresses that led to making love until you were satisfied and would then fall silently asleep in my arms, while I stayed up wondering what it was I had done to stir these moments of treasured affection.

I wrote other things in the journal too. I wrote that I had discovered when I was ten years old, that sometimes people just die. It was in my aunt’s apartment in Staten Island. My mother and I walked through the apartment as we had so many times before, but it was somehow changed. We stared at the crucifixes on the wall and statuettes of the Pope. There were pictures of my aunt as a young woman and they brought tears to my mother’s eyes.

In the car, on the way to the church, my mother told me that my aunt had spent the majority of her life alone in that apartment. She told me that no one should live alone like that and I promised her I wouldn’t.

We were the first ones in the church and the open coffin, surrounded by white flowers, lay before us. My mother straightened my tie and we walked hand in hand between the rows of chairs towards my Aunt, in a white frilly dress, her lips bright red, her face the color of the moon.

My mother and I knelt in front of the coffin and my mother whispered under her breath as her hands touched the coffin. I stared at my aunt’s closed eyes and I understood that she was dead. There was no need for my mother to explain anything. And while a certain sadness existed with in me, it was soon overshadowed by the arrival of cousins who took me outside so we could play in the parking lot.

Death, at the time, meant nothing more than putting on a tie and playing hide and seek with distant relatives.

Death is different now.

I tried explaining this to you when you came back to forgive me on the twelfth day. You sat silent on the other side of the raft, your legs pressed against your chest in an effort to escape the nighttime chill. I told you I must not have loved my aunt because when she had died I felt nothing. You asked me about the others who had died.

Not the old ones on machines in their hospital beds who left you their old golf clubs and fishing rods, who you knew would die someday, but the young ones. The ones who were taken in an instant, through gunfire, suicides, and trees along the highway. The ones who seemed invincible.

“I loved them,” I told you, and I knew it was true because when they died I sat and cried for them and when I looked at their young mutilated bodies in the casket I realized I would never see them again and that it could just as easily be my eyelids shut and my body in the cold wooden box. I cried because I realized I didn’t want to die.

“No,” you said. “You really don’t want to die.”

And then you left again.

In my mind I went to the place where I lost you—the night the boat went down. You stood at the wheel, and kept her at a steady seven knots, fifteen degrees south by southwest. I stood on the deck and looked through a sextant at the stars and tried to figure out where we were. We did not speak. We were five days out of the islands and words between us were replaced by routines of cooking, steering, and taking turns at navigation.

The sextant we used was an old one. A simple device that when used properly would tell us exactly where we were on the planet. It had a small mirror on it in which to align the North Star. The goal was to find the North Star, have it shine through a lens and reflect onto the center of your forehead. The mirror would let you know if you had succeeded. But it didn’t really matter if you succeeded or not. We had satellite navigation, radios, and other modern instruments of navigation that did not entail the aligning of stars with various body parts. According to the sextant, my forehead and my math we were somewhere in the Rocky Mountains.

I told you this and you laughed, keeping her at 15 degrees south by southwest.

Before we left land I told you of the dangers at sea. The whales, storms, currents and reefs that could sink us in an instant. You said you weren’t scared. I told you of the tales told by sailors of rouge waves reaching as high as seventy feet that came without warning from the depths of the ocean and destroyed boats like sandcastles on the beach.

“I read Robert Louis Stevenson too,” you said.

But the night the boat went down you did not doubt me. I looked away from the North Star for an instant, watching you with your hands on the wheel, your eyes looking through the world at something nobody else could see.

When I saw it I could not speak. It was every bit of seventy feet and you looked so small and helpless underneath its white fury. You looked at me for an instant, turned around to face your monster, looked back at me in despair and turned the wheel in an attempt to make the boat face its predator.

I wondered then if you had read Stevenson. He once wrote that when he was in the South Seas and a seventy-foot wave had approached him, he simply kept her steady and rode the wave like a surfboard until it returned to the depths from which it had sprung.

The wave hit us broadside, capsizing the boat. It hit you first and as I held onto the mast I lost your yellow slicker somewhere inside the white rage. The wave continued to come, like an avalanche from some unseen peak, and the boat turned increasingly into the ocean. I cut the ropes that kept the life raft and duffle bag attached to the deck. It inflated instantly and floated like a balloon above the white water. The boat was on its side filling with water and sinking.

I remembered the voice of the man who sold us the boat, mentioning things like “self righting, self bailing, and unsinkable.” Then I saw you. Your yellow slicker and body caught in the rigging now under the water. The raft, attached with a rope to the sinking boat, waited anxiously above us. I swam to you and attempted to cut the steel wires and ropes that refused to let you go.

You spoke to me then in undecipherable bubbles. I imagined your eyes dancing a frantic tango in the pitch-blackness of the water. I ran my hands against your body and felt the tightness of muscles as they flexed against the cold steel cords and taught ropes.

I pressed my body against yours—we hung suspended and weightless beneath the aftermath of the wave you believed could not exist. We began drifting down, the cabin filling with water, and the sails lifeless in the sea. You grabbed my hand as I looked to see the bright orange of the raft on the surface, the rope connecting it to the boat becoming taught. I placed my hand on the back of your neck, like I had so many times before in moments of passion, rage and affection. And then, as if by some ill-fated cue, we both let go, and I untied the rope that kept the raft to the boat. You were still, your eyes straight ahead, your hands motionless at your side, and you left me as I floated alone with the rope in my hand.

It was then my lungs and brain began to feel the lack of oxygen. My body panicked as I swam to the surface, exploded out of the water into a clear sky and took in all the air I could. At the moment I didn’t even realize you were gone. The only thing that mattered was that single breath of air. And the wave, the one that had crept up behind you and taken you away, had been replaced by a calm uncaring sea.

On the thirteenth day you came to the raft, and asked me to tell you again, the way things were going to be. I told you how there would be dolphins in our wake, and stars to guide us once the moon disappeared over the horizon. I told you how we would walk around the boat wearing nothing but hibiscus flowers in our hair. I told you of deserted beaches, eating mangos from trees and lovemaking in the sand. “It will be our Eden,” I told you.

Somewhere I lost track of the days. This morning was the same as the morning before and the morning before that. Nights never differ—it is the same constellations night after night, teasing me with their knowledge of time and place.

I drink water from the stills, kill the large headed fish when they come, and speak to you when you are here. I peel my sunburned skin off in large layers, place them delicately in the water and watch them float out to sea.

When I see planes in the distant sky I fire a flare into the air, watch it explode and float back down into the ocean. For a moment it feels like the Fourth of July. But the planes never stop. They keep their course with their invaluable cargo, taking people to places they’ve never been before.

If the planes were to see me, in my floating studio apartment, and send their helicopters down to save me I may even tell them to go away and leave me in peace.

The shore is a reality I would rather not face. If I reach land there will be questions to answer, funeral arrangements to be made, and the constant reminder of what happened at sea. But here, in the unending ocean, there is still hope. There is always the chance you will come to me from the sea or the sky.

Here there is nothing to think about except the past.

On land there will be nothing but the future.

I have started to see birds. Large albatrosses with their 10-foot wingspans and airplane sized bodies. They fly silently above me, like vultures circling a corpse. Sailors used to say that the sighting of an albatross brings luck, but it doesn’t represent luck to me. To me the sighting of an albatross means there is land nearby.

You came to me the night I spotted the first one. You flew behind him in the night, and glided your way next to me in the raft. You asked me what I was going to do when I reached land.

“Eat a steak,” I told you. “With mushrooms and a potato and a good bottle of wine.”

It suddenly occurred to me that I would have to eat alone.

I slept through the night with you beside me. In the morning you shook my leg and spoke in a language I couldn’t understand. I looked for you but you were gone, replaced by an old man with no shirt, gray hairs on his chest, and eyes as bright as the sea.

He smiled a toothless grin and motioned for someone to come see what he had found. Beside him came a woman, equally old, with her weathered breasts staring at me from beneath a white sleeveless shirt. She handed me an old plastic milk container filled with water. They helped me into their small boat, the bottom filled with brightly colored fish and nets with sea cucumbers stuck to them. They tied the life raft to the stern of the boat. The woman placed a blanket around me, gave me some bread from a bag to eat and sat me down before her so I could rest my back against her sagging knees.

There was no land in sight and the old man began to row, gently humming a song. He looked at the woman at the other end of the boat and she laughed. They did not speak to each other, but smiled and gestured with slight bends of the arm, and nods of their heads.

The old man rowed until it was night. In the distance I began to see land. You were there in the saltwater sky but you didn’t come down. You simply disappeared, and left me between the sea and land, the man and the woman; you left me in the wells between the ocean waves, drifting between love and love lost.

[img_assist|nid=4347|title=”Tongue Tied ” by Aloysius, © 2005|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=326]Once Sara was gone, Aislinn folded the bed back into a couch and surveyed the aftermath of their impromptu romp. Sex with her semi-ex-girlfriend always left Aislinn breathless and disoriented, as though Sara had passed her a dubious pill rather than a wad of already-been-chewed Juicy Fruit on the crest of her formidable tongue.

Aislinn pulled on her T-shirt and began blowing out the candles still burning along the wide, paint-flaking windowsill. It was a sweltering summer afternoon—the third day running to hit the nineties—and still Sara had peevishly insisted on lighting candles.

“It smells like Cracker Jacks in here,” she’d said, sniffing the air suspiciously, wearing that infamous scowl of hers like a facemask. “Cracker Jacks and cat piss, with—what—a splash of Listerine.”

Sara’s sense of smell was legendary among their small circle of friends. She could correctly identify a perfume from clear across a crowded bar. Not that many of them even bothered with perfume. Often they camped it up with self-parodic fixative-sprayed wrists, a dab of linseed oil behind each ear. They were art students, after all. That was image enough.

Aislinn hadn’t really expected her unofficial roommate to appreciate or understand—or even respect—her period of self-imposed celibacy. But neither had she quite counted on Sara waging an all-out war; the woman had used every weapon in her sizeable sexual arsenal, from propagandized pillow talk to the twin atom bombs of her eyes, to recapture a small but strategic piece of land that, arguably, had never belonged to her in the first place.

She went to the freezer and reached for an Otter Pop—her favorite, Little Orange Annie. Sara had found a case of them at a bulk-rate food warehouse somewhere in South Jersey, not far from her parents’ house. When she was young, Aislinn’s summer diet seemed to consist of nothing but flavored frozen water: ink-soaked Sno Cones the texture of rock salt; art deco “rocket pops” of red, white and blue; paper tubs of Italian water ice and their makeshift wooden spoons. The cartoon clique of Otters, though, had always been her favorite; they were worthy of their own Saturday morning show.

As a kid, once Aislinn had finished sucking the last of the fruit-flavored ice from their plastic packets, she’d slip the empty tubes onto her fingers and put on a sticky puppet show for her brother, drops of iridescent juice streaming down her slender fingers, some traversing her wrists and making it as far as her elbows. She’d done the same for Sara (who tended to lick her clean). In fact, when Aislinn first told Sara that she would not, after all, be moving in with her in the fall, it was Alexander the Grape who broke the bad news. Aislinn wasn’t fond of disappointing people, even though disappointing people appeared to be her forte.

The person Aislinn managed to disappoint most often seemed to be her mother. Aislinn knew Agnes O’Connor would have something to say about her decision to leave school, for sure. And, contrary to her conveniently dismissive It’s-A-Mom-Thang-You-Wouldn’t-Understand posturing, she knew why. Her mother was adamant about her children knowing exactly what—and who—they wanted. Needless to say she knew nothing about Sara. She’d wasted her own youth on a man whose name, for all they now seemed to have in common, she could just as well have drawn from a hat. Aislinn’s parents hadn’t divorced when she was twelve, but to hear her mom tell it, they’d come “thrillingly close.” These days Agnes appeared in a mad rush to make up for lost time: often she materialized, wild-eyed and winded, with merely the upper half of her mouth smeared with some age-appropriate shade of lipstick, one lone eye dusted with shadow. It wasn’t completely unheard of for Agnes to neglect to brush her chemically enhanced thundercloud of hair.

Aislinn could deal with her mother’s self-styled aberrations of fashion. The real problem was that her mother’s recent influx of nervous energy was precipitated by her realization that she had nearly ruined her life and was now, at forty-nine, quickly running out of time to salvage it. It dictated Agnes’s behavior in all aspects, not just her dress. Aislinn knew that her mother viewed her children as genetic victims of her own indecisiveness and well-hashed life-defining mistakes.

 

Aislinn finished the Otter Pop and chucked Little Orange Annie—who no longer looked so orange—in the trash. She almost apologized.

 

Sara had come by ostensibly to retrieve Walter Ego’s Proto-Indo-European Vibe. She claimed she couldn’t paint without it. Music was essential to the creation of Sara’s art. Sara often claimed to lack imagination, but Aislinn disagreed. Still, rarely had she seen Sara work without her trusty iPod, and the benefit of a garage band shouting mantras or some self-proclaimed pixie cooing encouraging words in her ears.

But even more than music and making art, Sara thrived on sex. For Sara sex was sustenance. There was simply no other word for it. She insisted on getting off once a day, and preferably not at her own hand. It was no accident, then, that she’d shown up at Aislinn’s wearing a plain Hane’s tank top. Sara was well aware of Aislinn’s weaknesses and often made no bones about preying upon them. They both agreed that there was nothing sexier—perhaps nothing more subversive—than a woman in a “wife-beater,” especially a woman with Sara’s sinewy arms and strong, elegantly tapered back. Sara cracked her knuckles, flexing every muscle along her taut, lovely arms. They hit the futon in no time flat.

“Three weeks,” Sara said, once they were through. She consulted what Aislinn called her Batwatch, a cross between a doorknob and a dial of birth control pills. “Three weeks and, look, record time. I still got the touch.”

For all her in-yo’-face sexual prowess and kamikaze resolve, Aislinn knew that Sara’s ego was as fragile as blown glass. Sara couldn’t get it through her head that the prolonged break-up had nothing to do with waning physical attraction or sexual incompatibility. In fact it had nothing to do with Sara, as a lover, at all.

“I’m not leaving you for another girl.”

“That’s what worries me,” Sara said.

“I’m not leaving you for anyone,” scolded Aislinn. “So quit acting like I am.”

Sara sighed.

“What?” Aislinn asked.

“I hate this.”

“So do I,” Aislinn said, but it was a half lie; after all, there was a measure of comfort to be found in control.

“Then don’t do it.” She stroked Aislinn’s wealth of red hair. “Choose me,” Sara said a moment later, reaching for an enormous, ribbed bottle of water. “I’m sorry, I have to stop pressuring you.”

“You have to get that self-portrait finished, is what you have to do.” Aislinn, like her mom, was a skilled subject-changer.

“I know, I know. Exactly when is it due?”

“Uh, like, an hour ago.”

“Shit.” Sara sat up, began rooting around for her clothes. “I took this course for you, y’know. So we could be together. I’m not so gung-ho about finishing in four years. And I’ve got better things to do with my summer.”

“Better than making art?” Aislinn knew it was a rhetorical question.

“Other people’s art? Fuck yeah. Definitely.” Sara found her pack of cigarettes, lit one up. “So how’s yours coming?”

It was one of those lame, masturbatory exercises the semantics of which art teachers stayed up late tweaking: Paint yourself as others perceive you. Talk about pointless, Aislinn thought. She had no idea how others perceived her, and [delete] nor did she care. She had no intention of completing the assignment—another week and she’d be gone—but she couldn’t tell Sara that, not yet. “Fini,” she said with a flourish.

“Bitch.” Sara looked away, and then looked out the window. She took a drag, expelled a perfect stream of smoke. Sara looked like an ad for something; though it wasn’t perfume, or cigarettes, or even sex, Aislinn couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. Reluctantly she followed Sara’s gaze and saw that the sky was clouding over. It was the color of Agnes’s infamous mushroom soup.

Sara checked her watch for real.

“In a hurry?” Aislinn accused.

“No.” Then, after a beat, “Well, okay. I guess I am.” She met Aislinn’s gaze. “Look, I’ll be honest.”

“For once.”

Sara didn’t smile. “Cute. The truth is, I’ve kind of got a date.”

Aislinn tried to hide her surprise even as she felt her eyes widen, her brow furrow, her jaw slowly begin to drop. She knew she looked like a parody of her mother now, whose exaggerated features had always struck her only daughter as cartoonish, slap-dash. “Kind of?”

“Let me explain—”

“What’s to explain?” Aislinn cut her off. “You’ve got a date. You come over here, fuck me knowing full well I’ve been trying like crazy not to get fucked, in every sense of the term, and then tell me you’re fucking someone else.” She shrugged. “Crystal clear.”

Sara frowned. “We are not fucking.”

“What?”

“Myself and…this other person, I mean. We haven’t slept together.”

“Yet.”

Sara guffawed. “You’re a trip, Linn. I mean really. You’ve dumped me how many times now? No one’s ever dumped me in my life! Ever. Then you say you’ll see me, but no sex. No sex. And you know how I am, you know I’ve got needs—”

“Oh, I know.”

“Well what do you expect? What is it you want from me, anyway? Do you even know?”

Good questions, all, thought Aislinn. Which meant they deserved good answers.

“Yes,” Aislinn began, getting both their hopes up. She paused, unsure of how best to proceed. “I want to know her name.”

Aislinn really didn’t want to hear Sara say the words Josie Scarpone, even though every sound in the room, from the humming fridge to the ticking clock to the rapid beating of Aislinn’s very own increasingly confused heart, seemed to count off the syllables of the woman’s name.

“It’s nobody you know. Just some girl.” Sara took Aislinn’s hand. “I’m not telling you her name.” She was downplaying the intensity of this new attraction, but Aislinn had her doubts.

Sara shrugged. “She asked me to the fireworks and I said yes.” Then she leaned in close, which usually worked on Aislinn, even when she smelled less like Channel and more like a carton of Luckies. “I said yes to her, but I wouldn’t say no to you,” she cooed.

Aislinn knew that Sara falling for another woman was the only foolproof way of ending their relationship. She tried convincing herself that it was a good thing that her semi-ex-girlfriend had a date. She knew that without the intercession of Josie Scarpone or Becca Brownstein or the Rastafarian woman who waxed the floors of Royer Hall, Sara would never take no for an answer. And, despite her insufferable flip-flopping, no was the very answer Aislinn was intent on giving her.

Still, the thought of Sara falling hard for someone else, and so soon, was unbearable; for a full year now the two of them had seemed to defy gravity.

“Well?” Sara was saying. “Can you make it?”

Aislinn glared at her, but not without love. “This sucks.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Plus you and your needs need some serious help.” Aislinn screwed up her face; she was giving in.

“No argument there.” Sara reached for the ashtray—her ashtray, a plastic mug molded in the likeness of the Nestlé Quik bunny—and toppled it in the process. “Shit. Sorry again.” She regarded Aislinn. “I do more apologizing in this apartment….”

“That’s okay. Penitence becomes you.”

Sara made a kissy face, then got up and quickly began pulling on her clothes—jeans, tank top, bad-ass motorcycle boots; she never wore shorts of any kind, though slinky dresses and leather skirts were not unheard of, reserved for those occasions when she felt the need to make a very specific kind of statement. Shielded by an oversized throw pillow, Aislinn walked her to the door.

“I’ll meet you at the Circle,” Sara said, “this side of the fountain.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Aislinn smiled. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

For an instant Sara almost looked hurt. “I tried that, remember. It didn’t work.”

“It didn’t work for you. I would’ve done just fine, if one of us had just had the guts to end it.”

“Brava,” Sara said after a moment, slowly clapping her hands. “You almost had yourself convinced that time.”

Aislinn blushed.

“The Circle,” Sara repeated. “Get there early. It’s going to be mobbed, and I can’t sarcastically oooh and ahhh all night in unison with a relative stranger.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Aislinn quipped.

“No,” Sara agreed. “But it would be the last.”

“Oooh, now I’m scared.” Aislinn dropped the pillow and gave her soon-to-be ex-girlfriend a playful shove.

“You should be,” laughed Sara, lightly shoving her back.

Aislinn pretended to busy herself with the dried paint under her fingernails. Nakedness was not her natural habitat, but she resisted the urge to scoop up the pillow. She was playing Sara’s game now, a game in which full disclosure was a prerequisite and coyness did not apply. “Okay, I’ll be there.” She shrugged. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

Sara regarded her skeptically. “Cool,” she said finally. “Very cool.” She pulled Aislinn to her and administered the kind of kiss intended to fill the void in her absence. “Don’t be late. I’m all about the pyrotechnics.”

As if she didn’t know.

Aislinn drew the chain lock on her apartment door. Then she did something she never did after fooling around with Sara: she took a shower. She was well aware of the symbolic implications of wanting to shower after sex, but she got around it by telling herself she didn’t need to feel clean so much as refreshed. She was a painter, after all, not some overzealous English major.

It wasn’t anything Aislinn had ever expected to happen, although Sara had often factored into her reveries as the one girl at Monroe she could see getting close to, closer than she’d ever gotten to any girl. But aside from having survived a grueling Intro to Anatomy class their freshman year; [, comma, not semicolon] Aislinn hadn’t known Sara very well. That is to say, she’d known pretty much what everyone knew: Sara was involved with one of the design teachers, a rather sad-looking woman with very large breasts and an inordinate fondness for paisley. It was an open secret that they were an item, although even the administration at Monroe claimed to frown upon student-teacher sexcapades. Of course Aislinn had found Sara attractive—who didn’t? But when Sara began skulking around her studio, making small talk and bringing her various things to eat from the lunch trucks camped along the curb—soft pretzels, cellophanes Tastykakes, cubist fruit salads—Aislinn had more reasons than most to consider exactly what it was about Sara she found so appealing. Aislinn liked the way Sara’s jet-black hair, choppy on top but shaved smooth as velour in back, accentuated her strong jaw; she liked the set, slightly drawn mouth and the square-tipped “ski jump” nose; she liked the subtle way Sara’s nostrils flared when she concentrated on a painting or—as she soon learned—reached orgasm. And those eyes. Caramel brown, they were sympathetic and smoldering at the same time. The eyes of both hunter and prey.

They’d both been drinking gin, which Aislinn was unused to, and attempting, without much grace, to step dance to the closing fiddle of Sinéad’s “I Am Stretched on Your Grave” at Spring Fling. Exhausted, they fell to the floor, setting off a chain reaction of tumbling dancers. The short version is that Sara accompanied Aislinn to the bathroom and tried sticking her tongue down her new friend’s throat. At first Aislinn resisted, although what had stopped her was the sheer shock of the surprise attack, not a lack of desire. But she soon warmed to the idea of having Sara’s tongue in her mouth and, an hour later, lapping gently between her legs; back at Sara’s, powerless against the gin as well as against that hungry, hell-bent look in her eye, Aislinn was happy to let her new lover lead, if only until she was able to get a feel for the dance, to learn these few unfamiliar, though oddly ingenuous steps. In her zeal, Sara had fumbled with the straps of Aislinn’s overalls so long that finally the latter decided to pitch in and help. Wracked by the giggles, they teetered there like that—neither fully clothed nor naked enough to get much done—for what seemed like days. Eventually they collapsed onto the mattress, a laughing tangle of hair and interlocked half-clothed limbs.

 

Aislinn pulled on her jade silk robe—a lavish, pointless present from her mother that Sara said made her look like something out of Fitzgerald—and lay on the futon. She plunged her hands into the pockets and felt something crinkle. Just before she retrieved the coarse watercolor paper she recalled what it was: the latest of Sara’s many “presents,” part of a Keats poem copied ransom note-style, in squares of mismatched print, and embellished with scrawls of conté crayon. She’d given it to her three weeks before, the first time Aislinn had tried to break it off. Like most of Sara’s presents—the Otter Pops, the bumper stickers, the raving purple sunflowers—it was as much an indictment as it was homage.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful, a fairy’s child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

 

Aislinn didn’t think her eyes particularly wild. If anything they were too small, set too close together. But her hair did reach down to the small of her back. And she had an unintentional habit of catching people off-guard.

When she got to the stanza about the “elfin grot,” Aislinn was reminded of the storage room on the fifth floor of the studio building, where for the first few months of their courtship she and Sara had met secretly. They’d scoured the building for a private place and Aislinn knew that Sara had deemed it as a kind of sanctification of their union when finally they found one. It wasn’t that they were so different, or what they were doing so odd. Still, Aislinn wasn’t ready just yet to join the proudly swelling ranks, to tout her newfound sexuality as many in the college—students and faculty alike—seemed intent on doing. Because they both had roommates, and because the studios themselves were anything but private, she’d insisted that they find a neutral meeting place and made Sara swear, to the best of her ability, to keep what they were doing quiet.

“Well, I’ll try,” she’d said, sounding as unconvincing as she could. “But it won’t be easy. You’re pretty hot stuff.”

They were seated at Sara’s enormous worktable, which was strewn with snail-like tubes of oils and thumbnail swatches of pre-treated canvas. Aislinn stuck out her tongue. Sara lunged across the table and tried to catch it between her teeth.

“Careful,” Aislinn warned, nodding to her left. Sara’s roommate and her boyfriend were in the next room.

“Please,” Sara said a mischievous glint in her eye. “They’re too busy to care about us. Listen.”

The sound of muffled groans and a creaking box spring came from April’s bedroom.

“Nice work,” Sara said. “If you can get it.”

“You get your fair share,” Aislinn countered, a faint smile gracing her lips.

“I’m a greedy girl,” Sara coolly informed her, slowly shaking her head. Her gaze was unwavering. “I want more.”

When they first found it, the door to the grot was fastened with a plastic-coated bicycle chain, but Sara was undeterred. She knew how to pick a lock as well as how to forge a signature, hot wire a car. In fact, it was Sara’s talent for minor criminal activity that, even more than her talent for painting, had impressed Aislinn, a suburban goody two-shoes who only ever crossed at the corner.

They met often after that, three or four times a week. “Meet me at the grot,” Sara would whisper on her way out of Mr. Hellman’s required English course. There in the dark, the jaggedly stacked desks and jutting easels really had taken on the appearance of rocks; the two naked girls stretched out on a flannel army blanket that of drunken bacchanals.

From the windows of the grot they could see the streetlights lining the Ben Franklin Parkway, and above them the huge, neon emblem of the Blue Cross building like something out of the Book of Revelation burning a hole in the night. During storms, those lights were their stars that cross their moon. They fucked under its glow—and munched Smartfood, poring over Eliot’s The Waste Land—their bodies tinted, or so they imagined, with a bluish sheen. Sara always insisted she would paint Aislinn in that light. After a while, word got out. It was a small school, and Sara wasn’t the best secret-keeper on campus. But by then Aislinn no longer cared. For a long time, all she had really cared about was Sara. And caring had rendered the grot obsolete.

Against her better judgment, she finished reading the poem which was Sara all over: dark, accusatory, melodramatic. The woman in the poem relished being on the receiving end of a raw deal. In reality, though, Sara had all the power. Aislinn had never taken her girlfriend’s professions of eternal love seriously, at least not so seriously that she was blind to the way other women continually caught Sara’s eye. But having few illusions about Sara didn’t afford Aislinn any sort of magical power. It couldn’t even keep her from getting hurt. Sara liked to argue that Aislinn, as a bisexual woman—if that was even the right word—was a liability for her: “Double the temptation. Twice as many reasons to cheat.” But Aislinn wasn’t a cheater. And she certainly didn’t feel like she had the upper hand, least of all when standing next to Sara (or even lying head-to-toe in bed). If anything she felt weak. Of course that was part of the attraction, and part of what irked Aislinn so. The problem was that Sara, too, claimed to be in her lover’s thrall. There were two Lovely Ladies without Pity wreaking havoc in this relationship. The poem wasn’t big enough for them both.

Aislinn took a towel to her wealth of red hair and dressed quickly, pulling on a flimsy gesso-stained work shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. Carol would be coming in any minute and Aislinn was in no mood for chitchat. Besides, her roommate was an intuitive girl who always seemed to have one ear cocked toward other people’s problems. One look at Aislinn and she would know what was up. And not even Aislinn knew, exactly, what that was.

It’d been months since she’d been to the grot, and for the first time Aislinn felt a twinge of ignominy as she picked the lock and slipped inside. She wasn’t sure what had prompted her to come here, or what she hoped to find. She half expected to find Sara, munching on an egg salad sandwich and an order of Curly fries from the cafeteria, a smiling I-told-you-so spread across her frustratingly seductive mouth.

It was musty and surprisingly cool inside, welcome relief from the stifling, record-high heat. Everything was just as Aislinn remembered it: desks carelessly thrown together piled every which way; boxes of acrylic and tempera paint stacked to the ceiling; massive reams of newsprint tucked into a corner like some scrolled ancient text. Sated and sleep-deprived, she lay down under the open window and peered out at the gray, late afternoon sky. Typical Philly Fourth of July: it started to rain.

Aislinn leaned her damp head against the folded crook of her arm and watched the overcast sky fade to black.

In her dream, Sara was insisting that she get a tattoo, which was weird, considering she didn’t have any of her own.

“Why should I?” asked Aislinn. “You can’t make me.”

“All the Monroe girls have one,” said Sara. “Some more. Josie’s got five, one on her back, one on her arm, one on each shoulder blade, like a set of wings.” She lowered her voice. “I can’t tell you where the fifth one is.”

“You don’t,” Aislinn countered.

“Oh, don’t I?” Sara tore off her tank, revealing a silk-screened Warhol portrait of Aislinn, but Aislinn circa 1989, as a first grader, in pigtails and thick-rimmed glasses. Suddenly, broken and bare-chested, Sara seemed on the verge of madness, cryptically pleading with her girlfriend, “Tell me what the thunder said before you go, tell me what the thunder said before you go…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Aislinn said.

“Liar!” Sara screamed. She grabbed Aislinn by her long red hair as she tried to run away. “Liar, liar, snatch on fire! Tell me what the goddamn thunder said before you go!”

But Aislinn couldn’t help her; she’d no idea what Sara was even talking about. “I always cover my ears!” she cried…

Aislinn woke to a muffled boom reverberating around the storage room. She went to the window just in time to catch a trickle of white light dart over the Art Museum and watched as it burst into a myriad of glitter-trailing spangles. These were Aislinn’s favorite; the shy, silently zigzagging fireworks that didn’t so much explode as peter out and pop. Of course Sara preferred the blockbusters.

Sara!

Rushing to get up, Aislinn tripped over her own feet and hit the floor hard. A barrage of rapid-fire showstoppers lit up the night sky with a wash of apocalyptic color. Then, just like that, the show was over, and the sky filled only with smoke.

The thought of Sara settling for a Josie Scarpone consolation prize left Aislinn feeling like a flattened tin can. She pushed the image away, preferring to picture Sara alone among the throngs of families jamming the Parkway. She envisioned Sara searching the crowd for signs of her iridescent hair, all sorts of disasters—everything from a slip in the shower to an abduction and rape—flashing through her excitable girlfriend’s mind. Aislinn saw the crowd dispersing, a circle of emptiness widening around Sara and Sara, like some spot-lit, heartbroken Irish tenor, pining for her dream girl, for that’s what Aislinn’s name meant. Sara pointed this out to her their first night together: “dream.”

“And yours?” Aislinn asked.

Sara had straightened her back and delicately cleared her throat before answering. “Princess,” she said in an affected tone.

“Wow,” Aislinn laughed, “talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Aislinn got to her feet and thumbed her nose at the makeshift moon, visible now on the other side of the smokeless sky. She stood there a moment longer than she needed to, regarding her own reflection in the inoperable, unwashed casement window. The translucent young woman who returned her gaze both was and wasn’t Aislinn O’Connor, much in the same way the corporeal girl inside the studio building both was and wasn’t Sara’s girlfriend; both was and wasn’t Agnes’s daughter; both was and wasn’t a third-year painting major at a posh urban art school. Aislinn felt simultaneously crowded and alone, like a person in a packed elevator. She didn’t know which way she was moving, or which floor was hers. She couldn’t even see the tiny lighted numbers, for all the bodies blocking her view. One thing, though, was clear: The ghost in the grimy black glass wasn’t especially impressed by what she saw.

O what can ail thee, knight at arms, alone and palely loitering?

Aislinn slipped out of the storage room without stopping to lock the door behind her. She took the stairs two at a time, feeling lighter by the moment. By the time she reached her apartment she’d be all but invisible. And when Sara called the next day, feeling guilty about her own betrayal but also somehow vindicated, Aislinn, her dream girl, would be nothing but air. Shaun Haurin was  raised in the Port Richmond section of Philadelphia. He currently teaches American and world literature at Rowan University. His work has appeared in The Baltimore Review.

It was my highlight of the year, telling the class of freshman boys they all wanted to murder their dads and screw their moms. Freud’s idea—not mine. We were reading about Antigone, Oedipus’s daughter, buried alive for attempting to bury her traitor brother. I wanted them to see that her fated end resided in her family line—and that there were many such invisible connections perhaps guiding their own lives even now.

I sought out the most uncomfortable face. Tim Boggs. He first buried his face between both hands, rubbed his eyes, twisted in the chair, shook his head. Tim never met the world’s gaze, his look always askance. Here, again, someone who’d rather not see. Well, I’d see about that.

“A problem, Tim?”

“That’s a load of crap," he said. He avoided me, his classmates, choosing the black of the board. I waited and slowly, uncomfortably, he swiveled to face me.

I winked at him and said, "Yeah, Tim. Figures you’d say that. I’ve seen your mother."

Ah, the eruption of laughter, some of them even falling into the aisles. Usually the act brought a smile from even the kid in Tim’s position. But not this year. This year, he trembled, his eyes searching for something else to rest upon, back, forth, like a darting trout crossed by a shadow from above.

The thing was—I’d never seen Tim’s mother.

That next day, Robin sat at the end of the kitchen island, its green granite flecked with dark brown, hazel like her eyes. She wore her brown hair pulled back, no attempt made to hide the bones that protrude in her cheeks, shoulders. It gave her the look of someone unapproachable, someone wrapped too tight.

She took deep breaths. "Okay Nick, so the mother was what?"

"I don’t know," I told her. "Disfigured. Burns or something."

"Fuck!" She stood up, swung at the air, tried to kick the stool, missed. "And so now what will we do? Move? Who’s going to hire you here?"

I knew, but I didn’t want to say it. My mother. I’d have to return to my mother’s lodge. A linebacker, my mother. Looming. Foreboding. What was it Sylvia Plath called her father? A bag full of God. Well, my mother was a bag full of God-knows-what.

Robin leaned on the island. "Look, I’m not moving—not going to lose my job." She was the school psychologist. "So what precisely were you thinking?

"I don’t know. They laughed. That’s it."

"They’re a bunch of teenage boys. Just make farting sounds if you need a laugh."

That was the challenge in class, to catch them with these off-the-wall comments, show a willingness to go where most teachers wouldn’t.

"It was funny," I said. "You have to admit that."

She raised her hand into the air. I expected the middle finger, instead got the ring one, the ring. Oh Jeez.

"The ring," I said. A few paychecks away. "I didn’t think—"

"Nick, I used to like your recklessness, as if the things that mattered to the rest of the world had yet to make an impression upon you." She put on her coat. "But now, I don’t know, it’s not working for me anymore."

I said nothing.

"You really believe the fleeting pleasure of this laugh was worth it?" she said. "Well, was it? Was it?"

I knew not to answer. Robin was an anchor, in a good way. She kept me from drifting too far out. Was she right about all this? Why wasn’t it funny anymore? What about the world had changed?

I told her I got it, understood now. But proof, Robin said. She wanted proof.

"Like what?" I asked. "A polygraph test?"

"Figure it out. You know where to reach me. Where you used to work."

Robin lived in a world void of excuses, focused only on what was clear. Incontrovertible proof. Or she would be gone. Just like that.

* * *

Client after client, all women. Her son, aren’t you? I’m fishing with Elinor Longarden’s son. Wooha! A flyfishing guru, my mother, had her own line of products, the Longarden Triangle, her very own parachute pattern, the Fuzzy Elinor, and even her own fly floatant lotion, the Rub-A-Daub. The Yoda of Dry Flyfishing. Dry flies. Only dry.

I sat under the pavilion, watched the water. Nothing yet. How daring and mature, I thought, such a return, here, to prove to Robin how wrong she was about me. But three weeks later Robin still wouldn’t talk to me, believed this return to my mother was actually a regression. A great example of irony for the class—if I’d still had one.

I heard the footsteps of the morning’s client, turned to her, squinted, saw mostly sun.

She stopped, waited, hands on hips. "Well," she said.

I shrugged, spread my outstretched hands, a "what’s up with you?" gesture.

"You have no idea who I am."

I squinted at a tiny stick of a woman, still masked by the sunlight. Thought of a cartoon: "I hate being a stick figure; every time I rub my hands, I catch on fire."

"I’m Denise." The pause, waiting for a shock of recognition. "Boggs … Tim’s mom?"

"Oh, jeez … You’ve come to fish. Or kick my ass?"

She moved, finally, under the pavilion. Her face, around her left eye, caved in, a crater, a black patch over the eye. "You sat behind me on the school bus," she said. She plopped down across from me on the bench, cracked, ready to collapse. "Said Denise the Dog. Denise the Dog. All the way to school."

"Really? That sucks." I looked back at the water, a few bugs had begun to appear, tiny olives, here, there, not enough to bring the fish to the surface yet. More proof of my idiocy, my saying stupid things that seemed funny at the time–the consequences lingering, like the smell of trout in my clothes. But still. How I hated grudges, people who held on to things way too long. They should let go, for god’s sake! Was her face like that in school? Wouldn’t I remember such a thing?

"So … your injury," I looked up into the black patch. "That wasn’t in school, was it?"

"No, you weren’t making fun of me for this. This came later. A few years after high school."

And then I remembered. Something my mom mailed me in college. A note. Wasn’t she a classmate? A baby. A Doberman. A mom between them. Disfigurement. A bite out of her head. An eye hanging. "The dog," I said. "That was you. That dog attack."

"Yes. I saved my son only to have him told later by his English teacher that he’d never want to fuck me." She didn’t smile, looked at the water, at the sound of the splashes.

They were all wild trout, none of them over a foot, but hundreds of them like boiling popcorn–fish rising here, there, everywhere, the problem being so many flies that the trout often ignored the client’s fly, floating among the naturals; but I knew the technique to catch the wariest of these trout. Course, never told my mother. Swore the clients to a vow of silence. No one had squealed, yet.

"You’ve got quite a problem, Nick. You lost your job, and your fiancée so I’m told. Yet all you see is this hole in my face. You can’t even be mad at me, can you?"

I shrugged. "Why are you here exactly?"

"Well," she said, standing up. "I paid for a day of guided fishing. You’re going to guide me."

"Forget it, okay. I was just making a joke. I didn’t know anything about you." I stood up. Names popped into my head, taunts to whisper as if we were still in school. Then I thought of Robin. Something was horribly wrong inside me. “Just go. Please.”

"Look," she said. "I thought maybe you could show me you weren’t such an asshole. And maybe, I don’t know, I could do something about your job. My son. Well. He’s getting blamed for it all. And I guess the kids liked you."

The proof Robin needed was here. The guide tied knots, undid snags, removed miscast flies from trees, changed flies, pointed out prospective trout lies, suggested casts, netted the fish, wiped a dripping nose, if need be, if the client asked. Magic, I was, out here.

I nodded. "It’s a deal," I said.

* * *

Denise Boggs, knee-deep in this always-cold mountain stream, placed the fly wherever she wanted, her eye never leaving its drift.

"Another one, Nick. That’s what, two dozen now?" she said. She high-fived me.

We stood at the bottom of a small waterfall. The stream turned, spilled against a large rock, the straits of Gibraltar. The foam gathered in that far bend of the curve. Follow the foam and you find the food; find the food and you find the trout. With all the currents between them and the fish, the key was to cast in a way so that the line had no drag.

"Drag-free drift," I said to Denise. "Throw an S-curve cast. Shake the lines and it’ll put curves of slack in the line."

"Thank you, sir," Denise said, and then did exactly as instructed. The current took the S’s, left the fly alone, and there, in center of the bend, Denise got her rise.

Sometime in the morning, the fish stopped hitting the dry fly, and so I switched her set-up. "Really," she said. "Your mother know about this?"

"My mother," I said, purposely trying not to stutter over the ‘m’ and sound like Norman Bates. No, my mother, the guru of dry fly fishing, the writer of a billion articles on the horrors of subsurface fishing, the artlessness of it, knew nothing about the fact that I tied wet flies onto the dry fly, and that I fished under the water. "Knows, Of course, she does."

Denise looked up at all the placards on all those trees: DRY FLYFISHING ONLY.

"An exception," I said. "For her son. But that doesn’t mean we have to tell her, right? She’d rather not hear about it."

"Whatever you say, Guide." Denise held out her hand, pulled me up from my crouch. Could anyone get past the missing eye? A great test of love, such a gap. Could I? Did I have such a heart, such strength?

And so it went, the morning spent taking care of her, putting her into dozens and dozens of trout, and finally Denise winked at me. "So I guess you’ll pass. Tim will be relieved. I’ll talk to Headmaster Whitling."

She made her last cast, and up rose a trout, a beautiful brookie, shimmering green. She reeled it in, held it under its belly, let it slide back into the current.

Denise wiped her hands on her shirt. "By the by, it isn’t true. What you said."

"What I said?"

"The Freud crap. It isn’t true. That’s all." We were on the bank now, stomping the mud and water away. "No boy would want his mother. It’s unnatural."

"Well, well." Another voice. I looked to the woods. Here she came, my mother, pounding down the path like some sort of Sasquatch, her red hair ablaze, the goddess of flyfishing and insanity. Born in a crossfire hurricane, jumping jack flash. I felt the earth rumble with each step she took towards me. Denise looked up, at this form bearing down upon her, stopping only inches from her, putting her into the cool darkness of shade. An eclipse, she was.

"Saw your name on today’s ledger and I thought, why that’s the bastard who got my son fired."

"I don’t think women can be bastards, Mom."

"They can! And don’t hit me with your English teacher gobbley goop." Denise caught in the burning headlights of Elinor Longarden had yet to recover her senses. "Now, Denise. What the hell happened to you that you can’t take a harmless joke? A grown woman."

Denise looked at me. I understand, her look said. You grew up with a crazy woman.

"You did this stupendous thing–saved your son. You should be proud." And then she reached for the patch, as if to grab it and rip it off Denise’s face. Denise stepped back, held her rod out like a sword. "Come now," my mother said. "You need to let the world see what you did for your son."

I envisioned my mother finally grasping the patch and holding it in the sky, far beyond Denise’s grasp. Like a tiny dog, Denise would jump after it, the emptiness of the eye, a black hole, my mother would glare into, unafraid.

"Your badge of honor," my mother told her. "A sin, to cover it up."

Denise looked ready to run her through. She backed away, aimed the rod toward my mother’s heart, wherever that might be, even though the rod would only bend, then snap. You couldn’t kill Elinor Longarden with a fishing pole.

"She’s a hell of a fly-fishing woman," I said to my mother. "The trout didn’t have a chance."

"Doesn’t surprise me. I knew as soon as I read that article that you must be something else. But this? This school thing? Doesn’t add up."

"Oh," Denise said, putting the rod down. "What’s it matter? Your son apologized. He’ll get his job back."

"He apologized?" my mother looked to me. "You? What do you have to be sorry for? You didn’t rip out her eye, did you? Attack her son?"

"No, Mother."

She glared down at Denise as if she were going to pick her up by her collar, hold her kicking in air. "My God. How I hate what’s become of women!" She kicked at a fallen stick. "Pathetic. The whole lot of you!"

A crunch of sticks and leaves. I looked up. Robin strode down the path. What? I felt dazed. On the stream, with my intense focus on one act, one goal, the world floated away, but then when it returned … I shook my head, wiped my eyes, and Robin still appeared to me, hands on hips now and still. Had she come for me, finally? Her eyes passed me by and focused on Denise. "Mrs. Boggs. Tim told me you were here. I couldn’t imagine why." And then she looked at me. "What gives?"

"You’ve got some nerve," my mother said. "Nick would be a fool to take you back. Runs away at the first sign of trouble."

"Is that right, Nick?" Robin said, then to my mother, "Don’t you know this was the proof of his love for me, Elinor? Coming back here. Purgatory. Didn’t Nick tell you that?"

Denise raised up, face red, dirt-streaked. She held the rod straight up, as it were now a lance she rested upon. Robin turned back to Denise. "They weren’t tormenting you, were they?" Robin asked.

Denise looked at me. "No. He’s not bad. Once you get him on the stream."

"Really?" Robin asked. "I never had him on the stream. Did you?"

"Jesus, Robin," I said. "What are you thinking? She’s going to Whitling. Going to get my job back. So you should be happy, now. Right?"

Robin walked by my side. "You really are sorry about all of this? Or do you feel the way she feels?" Her head bobbed toward my mother.

"I know my Nick," my mother said. "He isn’t about to bend to your demands. He’s much bigger than that."

My mother envisioned me as something big, solid, unyielding. In Robin’s eyes, this same person verged on childish and scatterbrained.

Robin walked forward and latched onto me. And as she did, Denise watched her, and Robin’s unbitten, uncratered face. Denise shook her head. "By the way," Denise said to my mother. "Your son’s wet-fly rig is something else. Especially when the trout turn off to the dries."

My mother grabbed at her chest. "My God, Nick."

"A bit much, mother," I said. "Don’t tell me this is the ‘big one’?"

Robin reached for me, grasped my elbow. "You went against your mother? Really?"

So that was it. Robin wanted the snapping of that connection, the type of run a monster of a trout makes, so the line breaks with a crack and the angler falls backward from the force of it.

Denise smirked. Perhaps I understood it. How are you ending up with Robin, the smirk asked. What if she had a patch, a crater for an eye? What then? I see your heart, Nick, and there’s not much to it. You’ve bought into myths, and so here you are, married to your new mother.

"The sanctity of my stream, Nick," my mother said. "You, of all people—"

“Yes,” I said. “My fly’s wet.”

Robin pulled me towards her. I didn’t move with her, so she stumbled backwards, tripped on a branch lying across the path. Crack. She fell into my mother’s legs, knocking my mother over, straight down, like a bag of sand, plop, next to Robin, plop.

I ended up beside Denise. "So, we’re it." I said. "The only ones left standing."

My own foot slid along the mud on the bank, split me, and I twisted against this fall and hit the cold water on my belly and struggled against, what, surely not drowning. The stream wanted to pull me away, down, under, and I wanted it too, but it lacked such will or the power or something.

When I opened my eyes, I hoped to find myself alone, finally and utterly.

Instead, I found Denise. Her one eye scanned me, up, down, then penetrated the vest, the guide shirt. I thought—finally—of Tim, her son, a lifetime caught in that gaze, searching his heart for things it didn’t have.Randall Brown is a fiction editor with SmokeLong Quarterly, an MFA in Writing candidate at Vermont College, a recipient of a 2004 Pushcart nomination, and a three-time winner of Zoetrope Workshop’s Top Story. Three dozen or so pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in a number of publications such as Timber Creek Review, The Iconoclast, Ink Pot, The MacGuffin, and Del Sol Review.
He’s also worked closely with Nance Van Winckel, Abby Frucht, and Terri Brown-Davidson.

[img_assist|nid=4342|title=”Comfort Zone” by Indigene, © 2005|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=186]I confess that I broke the cactus. The poor plant had been growing well enough in its little auburn pot. I counted eleven spiny spears shooting out from the center to form a mangled circle of sorts. Somebody gave it to me. I don’t remember who. And then smack in the middle of the cactus, this morning, there was a strange brown wire. I thought, is it a twig? A thread? And without further reflection, I grabbed that funny brown thing and yanked it out. I don’t know when I realized it – as I was pulling it out, or in the instant afterwards, as it lay in my hand. I have just destroyed a cactus, I thought. This twig, or stem, or what have you, was growing in that cactus. It belonged there. This twig was not trespassing. Neither was it destined to become a spiny spear. I have just destroyed what would have been the only flower of this spiny, green cactus.

I left the cactus where it was, poor wounded thing, and went to make the waffles. I made them the old way, stirring the batter with a wire whisk and pouring it into the waffle iron. On good days, when Elroy was in the mood and I was feeling up to it, I’d go out into the backyard and pick fresh raspberries. Or fresh strawberries, depending on the season. I would stir these into the batter before cooking. There is nothing like a homemade waffle with homegrown berries.

Elroy isn’t coming home today. I feel it in my bones. Today’s the day. It’s the one. La una, as they say in Spain. Or is that one o’clock? It’s been so long. The dancing is a long way off. Sometimes when I’m trying to fall asleep and Elroy is breathing lightly next to me, his soft wheezing in my ear, short phrases come back. Detached words, the lyrics of the songs we used to dance to in Sevilla or Granada. Elroy says I’m living in the past. Stuck there. “We ought to get a microwave,” he says.

“What for?” I ask. “So we can both die of radiation?” This is a genuine concern of mine.

“I’m already dying of radiation,” he says. “Skin cancer. All those summers in Florida.”

I take a good look at his leathery skin. “You have a healthy tan, is all.”

He doesn’t answer for a moment and then he says, an impish twinkle in his eye, “Want to make a bet?”

This is beyond propriety. “Elroy, I don’t want to bet on the welfare of your skin cells. They won’t like it.” He begins to chuckle. “Don’t laugh, it’s true. These are live things. They hear what we say.”

He strokes my hand and says, “Ok then, love. We won’t bet on my skin cells. That wasn’t even what I was going to say.”

“Oh? What did you want to bet on?”

He pauses and then adopts a rather serious tone. “Let’s have a bet on which one of us is going to kick it first,” he says.

And that’s how it started. As a joke. Just like any of Elroy’s jokes. Like the time he let my brother think I was pregnant. This was nearly thirty years ago, when Elroy was sixty-two and I was fifty-four. But still. At that age? It’s absurd. It’s downright lewd. We had George going for a while. If he had a known a thing about women he would have known that I’d stopped menstruating years earlier. But George did not pay attention to such things. He never has.

George died last Christmas of lung cancer. I try to tell Elroy to keep away from cigars, but he doesn’t listen.

“They don’t cause cancer,” he tells me.

“Like hell they don’t.”

“They have nowhere near as much nicotine as cigarettes.”

I don’t know if this is true or false. “Well then, do it as a favor to me,” I ask. “I can’t stand the smell.”

“You’ve been standing it for sixty years, what’s to stop you now? Besides, you should be encouraging me. That way you might win,” he says with a wink. “I might drop first.”

I tell him that I don’t like this form of banter anymore. That I want to cut it out.

“Cut what out?” he says. “Mary Beth, if you don’t have your death to laugh at in these years, what do you have?”

He has me, I think. He has me. Unless, of course, I go first.

He’s gone out for his morning walk. That’s where he’s been while I’ve been making breakfast and killing cacti. I used to go with him. Then I broke my hip. It’s a wonder the way your body hangs back as a shadow for year after year after year. And then one day it creeps up on you – bam! Here I am, it says. Feel me. Feel me.

How different the pains of the body are. How different from its pleasures. I think of the early days, when life was new to me. I used to have the sensation of flying, of being above and beyond and outside of my body. I was a spirit. I was on air. Now the body comes to me as a casement, sealing me in, keeping me shut, tight, creaking and cramped. I can’t even go for a walk.

Today must be the day. It’s icy out. February. No berries of any kind to be plucked for waffles. Elroy has his boots on, but still. I know how slick that ice can be. I know how you can be walking steadily and carefully one second, and the next you’re sucked to the ground. I have a vision of falling. Of Elroy’s blood seeping onto the ice for some animal, or worse, a child to find.

These are the images that fill my days now. Phones ring and I think – hospital? Elroy? Was it the cigars? A stroke? Sirens roar a few blocks away and my heart leaps with a rush of adrenaline. Until I remember, he’s napping upstairs. Yet even once I know that he’s asleep or watching television or taking a bath, my heart keeps hammering on. Last night I dreamt I was at my own funeral. I was lying in a casket, wearing my wedding dress. I had gone back in time to my former bridal self, twenty-four years old and glowing. One by one, people came up to greet me. I remember a blur of faces and then Elroy. He leaned over the edge and simply said, see, I won.

I try to tell myself that it hasn’t really become a contest. That neither of us would wish death for the other. Or loneliness for ourselves. But there is this competitiveness. We both have it. It surfaces exactly the same way in casinos as in graveyard gambles.

“So did you take your vitamins?” he asks me. “Don’t forget. Especially calcium. You wouldn’t want to develop osteoporosis.”

This is a joke. I try to take it as such. Secretly, I make mental notes about his breathing: Scratchier than last night. Has developed a cough. He says it’s just a tickle, but I can tell. It’s a cough.

Elroy, I think. Please be careful. It is slippery out there and you are not as limber as you once were. Elroy. I was kidding when I said those cigars would do you in. Let us pray, dearest, that our words do not bury us alive.

I pour the batter into the iron and press it firmly shut. I listen for the sound of ice crunching or the doorknob turning. Today’s the day, I can’t help thinking. Something awful. We’ve wished it on ourselves. Something terrible. I think this a lot of late.

It’s not that we’ve actually made a wager on our respective dates of doom. We haven’t. We’ve only been kidding around about the bet ever since Elroy brought it up. But that was just the problem. He brought it up. And now it is here, lurking in the kitchen and the bedroom and all along Elroy’s walk. Which one of us will go first?

Aside from that question there are the other details. There are the non-competitive details, ones not so amusing as the thought of Elroy saying I-told-you-so at my funeral. There is, for instance, the image of lying in bed alone.

I tried it yesterday afternoon. Elroy was downstairs watching television and a sudden, ridiculous fear rose in my chest. Now, I’m no scaredy-pants. I’m not going to tell you I’m looking forward to death, but when it comes I will meet it with open eyes. What I am not ready for is a year, or two years, or even ten, living in this house alone. Without him. That’s why I got into bed yesterday. I pulled the lavender sheets back and thought, This is what it is like to have a king-size bed to yourself. It didn’t feel so odd at first. Well, of course it didn’t. I’d taken plenty of naps without Elroy by my side.

If I had only stayed there. If I had only stayed on my side of the bed, next to the alarm clock, all would have been well. But I really wanted to test it out. I thought I’d make the idea as tangible as possible. So I rolled myself into the middle of the bed. Not all the way over to Elroy’s side. But smack into the middle of the bed. I was a buoy bobbing on a sea of lavender.

And so this is the work, the daily work, of staying afloat. This is the making of waffles and the butchering of cacti. The mundane acts that make the anxiety shrink. If I knew exactly what was going to happen I could be at peace. If I knew that I was to go first, or Elroy, or that I would have to live without him for three years or six or ten, if I could only know the number I could get a grip on it. I could be at peace. It’s this not knowing that stretches out like an ocean before me, full of mystery, suspense at its worst.

I can’t tell if Elroy’s bothered by it or not. He’s always been so carefree. But they say that in every joke there’s a hint of truth. And he’s the one who made the joke. He’s the one who made it, but the unfair thing is, I’m carrying it. It’s weighing me down like a lifetime of cigars or a hearty dose of skin cancer.

The waffles are on the table. I’ve set the syrup out, and the butter. The napkins are set, two saffron napkins and two forks and two knives. Pairs. Doubles of everything. When we got married, everything came in twos. We were given two golden candlesticks, two porcelain teacups, two bathroom towel sets – did they think we couldn’t use the same towels? But we don’t. I use the mauve ones, and Elroy, the lime. We never discussed it. It just happened that way.

Is this the way it will happen? No word, no phone call, no ghastly sight on the staircase or in the den? Just this empty space, vacant time, the waffles getting cold and the coffee. And then I hear them. Footsteps. They are approaching the house. They are the sound of Elroy or a policeman or a stunned neighbor. They are going to hit the front door any second now. “Mary Beth?” he calls. It’s him.

“Elroy?”

He steps into the living room and crosses over to where I am standing.

“Yes, love?” His cheeks are flushed with cold. He isn’t wearing enough clothing. Beneath his jacket there’s just a red flannel shirt. “What is it?” he asks.

He ought to be wearing a sweater. A wool hat. He has leather gloves on, but they aren’t very thick. “You must be freezing,” I tell him. “You’ll catch your death.” And then I hear them, these awful words of mine.

“Is something wrong? Mary Beth, what’s the matter?” He lays a gentle hand on my wrist. It is papery and dry and firm.

“Breakfast was ready twenty minutes ago,” I tell him. “You’re late.” Kabeera McCorkle is a Philadelphia area writer and native. Her work has previously been published by the Danforth Review, and has been produced by Philadelphia’s InterAct Theatre Company.

[img_assist|nid=4339|title=”3 Mamaie” by Simona Josan, © 2005|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=113]Evie is a good daughter in some ways. When her stepfather keels over suddenly from a heart attack, she takes off two weeks from work to fly back to Iowa. She helps her mother organize the kitchen cabinet, separating the canned goods from the pasta boxes. She lets her weep and brings her Kleenex after Kleenex. She waters the plants whose leaves are brown and curling at the ends. She wears black to the funeral service, holding her mother’s hand, listening to the priest drone on about her step-dad and what a great man he was (as well as a dedicated Shriner) and she does not burst into hysterical laughter. She bows her head and doesn’t yank her hand away even though her mother grasps it tighter and tighter as if she’ll never let go, squeezing until Evie’s fingers tingle and turn cold. She calls the realtor to put their cramped and unhappy house on the market. She helps her mother sort through his junk and doesn’t correct her long, inaccurate, sepia colored reminisces.

“Do you want to take anything with you, honey?” her mother asks, holding up his round pocket watch, his WW II lighter, his fishing tackle box.

“No, thank you,” Evie says each time in a voice like someone refusing a second serving of mashed potatoes.

She even stays to search for a place to put her mother once the house sells, but her mother, in her vague manner, finds something wrong with every potential new home.

For instance:

They cruise by Sunny Vale Retirement Village, an apartment complex made of cheery yellow brick with red shutters and flowerboxes in the windows. Reasonable rent, ceiling fans, and a weekly Yahtzee game at the clubhouse. “Oh, there is no yard!” her mother says, tapping her fingers to her lips.

“ Who cares?” Evie says. Her mother blinks at her rapidly like a baby bird. Bewilderment and hurt ripples across her face. This makes Evie want to shake her or wrap her safely in a blanket.

“Why do you need a yard? Will you be sunbathing?” Evie’s new approach requires her to use sarcasm blended with a dash of autism. She’s hoping her refusal to react will force her mother to be more practical. But this is not how their relationship usually goes and it has put her mother out of whack. She looks at Evie like she is someone else’s child, one with fangs. She shouldn’t have been so clingy when she was younger, Evie thinks, each separation from her mother resembling an Irish wake. She shouldn’t have slept with her mother’s green shirt under her pillow because she missed her so much. At twelve, she should’ve shaved her head, gotten a nose piercing, and smoked cigarettes behind the school gym. Instead, she went to the library to check out books about misunderstood horses. She should’ve been a different person entirely.

Her mother looks out the car window. “Well, I think a garden…” her voice trails off, leaving a suspended silence that drives Evie to bite off her fingernails one by one.

Finally, Evie explains she really has to get back to work. Really. She has to leave. Soon. Now, if possible. She imagines dropping her mother off at the neighbor’s door with a note pinned to her blouse, “Please take care of me” and speeding off into the night, like someone released from a prison sentence. Instead, she tells her mother that she has to be back in Chicago the very next morning. It’s imperative.

Her mother nods her head slowly, like a hearing-impaired person learning to read lips. “Oh, I understand. You have things…”

Before she leaves, she tells her mom to call her any time, as much as she wants, day or night. Giddy with the knowledge that she will soon be gone, she even goes so far as to suggest that her mother could move to Chicago for a while. As soon as the words leave her mouth, Evie freezes, suddenly picturing her mother sitting on the sofa all day while Evie works, her hands folded in her lap, waiting patiently for her daughter to return home.

Her mother shakes her head. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t think of it.”

They say good-bye in the driveway next to the oil spot left by her step dad’s [step-dad’s] old wreck of a Plymouth. Her mother hugs her hard, for too long, an interminable amount of time, until Evie pushes her away. “I have to go, Mom.”

“Okay, my darling.” she gushes wildly, sounding like a lover.

Evie jumps in the car. She puts on her seat belt. Her mother continues to stand by the window until Evie rolls it down.

“I miss him,” her mother announces.

What can she miss, Evie wonders. He was a bad husband, full of rage and given to Tennessee Williams theatrics. He liked to throw things that would shatter spectacularly. He slammed doors. When introducing Evie to others, he referred to her as “the competition.” Her mother would laugh uneasily, trying to catch Evie’s eye, as if telling her silently, But you know how much I love you, right? Now, her mother waits for Evie to say something, but Evie’s brain is an empty cave. If she opens her mouth, bats will fly out. Instead, she rolls the window back up, puts the car in reverse, and drives away.

A wonderful daughter, yes.

 

The phone calls start. Her mother has taken Evie’s words to heart and calls at least ten times a day. Evie can let the machine pick up at home, but at work, she has to answer. Sometimes, she puts her mother on hold for half an hour at a time, hoping the theme from The Nutcracker playing over and over again will drive her to hang up. No such luck.

She tries to keep the calls brisk, the conversations short, and to remind her mother how busy Evie is. Busy, busy, busy. Except in real life, Evie’s nights consist of crossword puzzles, braiding and re-braiding her hair, cat tricks, TV, and paint-by-numbers. So she creates a crazy social life and a complicated divorce case at work involving necrophilia. She invents a night class on wine tasting and two new best friends who have forced her to join the Chicago Social Club. She joins an imaginary volleyball team that practices at the Y on Wednesday nights. She constructs such a rich and rewarding life that she begins to feel jealous of the self she’s made up. When her mother exclaims about an invitation Evie has pretended to get to an art opening, Evie snaps. “Well, it won’t be that fun.”

At work one Monday morning, she suggests to her boss, Matt Becker, Esquire, that maybe it’s time to change the office phone number. Ever alert in his red suspenders, MB asks, “Is someone stalking you?”

[img_assist|nid=4340|title=”Thief of Hearts” by Aloysius, © 2005|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=306]“Yes.” Evie tells him. “My mother.”

He steeples his hands under his chin. He is sympathetic but explains that, unfortunately, the phone number must remain the same.

“Then will you pretend to almost fire me?”

MB practices divorce and bankruptcy law. He understands the intricacies of relationships and has learned when to ask questions and when to button up. He has a second wife named Emma and a first child named Dexter and he never stares at Evie’s legs when she wears short skirts. The next time Evie’s mother calls, he picks up the line, speaks to her in a low, polite, and professional voice. The calls at work don’t stop completely, but they slow down to once or twice per day.

Then finally one Saturday night, Evie has a real event to attend. She’s been invited by a friend of an acquaintance to a party called “The Parent Trap.” The idea is to dress up as a mom or a dad, either someone famous or one of your own parents. People in Chicago are very clever that way. She hears clever conversations everywhere; in Starbucks, on the El, in the bathroom at work. She tries to join in, but her attempts are always slightly off, like a person who has stumbled into a conversation too late and laughs before the punch line has been delivered.

The phone rings just as she’s about to leave for the party. She stands in the doorway, her hand on the knob. “Evie, honey? It’s me.” She pauses. “Your mom.” She can see her mother clearly, standing by the yellow phone, the circle of light from the kitchen lamp casting her face in shadows, half-packed boxes towering around her. “The realtor called today and said something.” Another pause. “I think it was important but I couldn’t find the thing to write down the phone number and so now I’m worried he’s showing the house tomorrow and I just can’t…” Evie shuts the door, locks it, and hurries away. The sound of her mother’s voice echoes in her ears all the way down the long hallway.

In the elevator, she looks at her reflection in the silvery door. Her face appears distorted, like someone underwater. She surrounds her mouth with dark, dark lipstick and is startled by the results. She is all mouth. That is fine, because tonight, she is someone else entirely; someone brave, a girl with an attitude.

The party is filled with moms and dads. There are mom’s everywhere—Drag Queen Mom, a Mom with a beehive hairdo and bright pink lipstick, Martyr Mom with a fake wooden cross strapped to her back, Whistler’s Mother, a girl dressed like a cat. The dads include Mr. Cleaver, several 1950s’ dads in corduroy jackets with patched elbows and unlit pipes, dads in football jerseys with pot bellies made out of sofa cushions, sitcom dads, and a Father Christmas. Also, a man dressed as the Virgin Mary. “Get it?” he asks everyone. “Get it?”

The moms and dads bump into Evie, who can’t escape the front room. She finds herself repeating, “Oh, sorry, sorry. Whoops! Excuse me!” until finally, she’s able to wrench free by elbowing a Joan Crawford Mom carrying a handful of wire hangers.

One woman in a blue dress with puffed sleeves trails around holding a martini glass between sharp red fingernails, her face covered in white powder. Evie asks the woman what her mom is like. The woman coughs neatly into her hand. “She’s like, dead.” Evie takes a sip of her paper cup filled with warm pulpy orange juice and Smirnov vodka. She nods, unsure of what facial expression to wear.

The hostess Mom, with a black eye and an arm in a sling, circles around offering meatloaf, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Wonder Bread, juice boxes, Little Debby cakes, and green beans.

For half the night, she is cornered by a frizzy-haired guy in a black turtleneck with a huge yellow construction paper question mark taped to his shirt. “I’m adopted,” he explains. He leans in until Evie can clearly see his nostril hairs. Tiny spittle projectiles fly when he talks. Evie considers rummaging through the hostess’ nearby dresser for sunglasses.

She doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Something too intricate and personal to untangle over the music. She catches sight of a very cute Dad leaning against the wall near the bathroom. It seems that she and the Dad are exchanging heated eye contact, but it’s hard to tell in the dim lights.

Adopted Guy has posed a question. Evie asks him to repeat it. “I said it’s an interesting idea. Do we have to turn into our parents? You know, like no matter how hard we try and rebel and not make the same dumb mistakes, we’re sort of predestined to fuck it up the same way anyway?”

Evie doesn’t know how to answer that question. She says, “Oh, hold on. I think I have something in my eye." She weaves her way over to cute Dad, who wears a long blond wig, a tie-dyed shirt, a suede vest with a peace emblem, and billowy-legged blue jeans. A knot of loud-talking girls gather near him. Evie squeezes by close enough to allow one of her breasts to brush his arm. She feels suddenly very brave and very drunk and it’s an exhilarating feeling, as though she might cause a scene.

“Mom? Mom, is that you?” Hippie Dad says, touching her arm.

Evie stops. “Son?” They’re going to have the “theatre school” conversation where they banter like two actors auditioning for Second City. While they talk, Evie imagines their wedding, their children; the interesting story they’ll recount years later about meeting at a parent party. He’ll tell their family, “As soon as I saw her, I knew she was the right Mom for our children.”

He has straight white teeth with a slight gap in the front. He probably drinks lots of milk. She could grow to love that in him. “Please tell me you’re not an accountant in real life,” she says.

“No, I don’t even own a brief case.” It turns out he’s studying to be a geneticist at the University of Illinois. He researches the mating habits of fruit flies. It’s more interesting than one would think. Luckily, he doesn’t go into detail. He has a fat, spotted mutt named Jack whose nose is flaking off at the moment. He’s taking Jack to the vet very soon. He asks Evie if she likes drive-in movies. She says yes, of course, yes! The important thing is to keep the conversation going. He reads and reads and reads and then takes naps and reads some more. He regrets not traveling to Prague with his best friend from undergrad when he had the chance (God, his thin wrists are so fucking attractive. Her mother once told her that men with thin wrists are better kissers because they’re more evolved. It’s something she read in a book). His favorite scene from any movie ever is the last few minutes of Manhattan when the Woody Allen character lists reasons not to blow his head off: the existence of the Marx Brothers, jazz, his lover’s face. He takes a breath. “But wait, what do you do?”

Evie considers making something up. She could be a private detective or the amateur photographer hired by the private detective. She says, “I work in a law firm.” His face falls. “But I am extremely unethical.” He perks up again. She confesses to reading the divorce files at work. She has access to them, technically, yes, but only to fit them alphabetically into the file cabinet. But often now, when Mark Becker, Esquire, goes to court or to lunch or to the dry cleaner’s to pick up his suit for the next day, Evie waves goodbye, counts to twenty, and then opens the files to read the personal information of the clients, all written in MB’s neatly blocked script; all the evidence needed for the divorce proceedings.

“What kind of evidence?” Her confession has not caused him to make a face like someone biting into a mealy apple. For this, too, she might love him.

“Evidence as to why his client should get everything accumulated over the course of the relationship. Including the toothbrushes.” She describes the diary the wife kept in Vitullo vs. Vitullo. It detailed the wife’s unrequited crush on the director of their church choir, and also how her husband kept old issues of Playboy underneath the bathroom sink, magazines their 10-year-old son could have found at any time. On March 15 of last year, Mr. Vitullo called Mrs. Vitullo a son of a bitch at Denny’s in front of the Sunday brunch crowd. He played his 78 of “Luck Be a Lady Tonight” so many times that the neighbors phoned the cops. The complaints went on for three more pages. Most files are like that, long laundry lists of small things. It’s not always huge catastrophes that split them apart, not torrid affairs or child abuse or alcoholism, but something else; a slow, mundane animosity that sprouts from knowing another person too intimately for too long.

The room has thinned to only a few bedraggled moms and dads milling around here and there with wigs askew and smeared lipstick. The hostess flips the lights on and off. “All parents please report home to check on the children.”

“I should go,” Evie takes a last hard sip of red wine, hoping it hasn’t turned her teeth cranberry colored. He nods.

“Just wait for me for one second,” she says and ducks into the bathroom.

Her face in the mirror is startling, too pale and there are dark purplish circles under the eyes. She doesn’t appear glamorous; she looks frightened, as if someone has just threatened to punch her. She narrows her eyes, practices a better smile, one belonging to a starlet. She rummages through the medicine cabinet and finds a pair of scissors. She pulls down a long section of hair at the front of her head and cuts it quickly. The hair springs back, short. Now she has bangs. Or a bang. She snips a section off the other side. The two sides are uneven. She tries again. Dark hair falls into the sink in question mark shapes. Someone knocks on the door. She takes a few last hacks. She hasn’t had bangs since was twelve and there’s a reason. They make her face look bare, her eyes even bigger, like a real life replica of one of those horrible children in a Walter Keane velvet painting. The person outside pounds the door. “Hurry up or you’re grounded!”

When she comes out of the bathroom, Hippie Dad has vanished into the night, lost, gone on the road with his band maybe. She knew it. She knew it. She can’t pull this off. She starts for the door and nearly bumps into him as he rounds the corner with two paper cups in his hands. “Your hair!” he exclaims, taking a step back.

“Let’s go,” she says. She walks away without glancing back, hoping, please God, that he’s following and that when she turns around, he will still be there with her. And miraculously, he is.

In the cab, Evie nods and tries to laugh at the right places as he’s telling her a story about his uncle who breeds Bichon Frise’s. She makes a hurried mental survey of the state of her apartment as she last left it. Did she pick her underwear up off the floor after her shower? Are there neon signs of weirdness in plain sight such as the paper dolls she bought on impulse last week and cut out while listening to the audio version of In Cold Blood narrated by Robert Blake?

The apartment won’t be too, too bad, because she’s taken to keeping it presentable, due to a recent Saturday late night marathon of a true-life crime series on A&E that showed colored photos of dead people’s homes. They didn’t reveal the bodies, but it was still deeply disturbing to witness the way some people lived; with garbage bags piled around or stacks of decade-old Better Homes and Gardens or pizza boxes; rooms that looked like the occupants had given up at some point and said screw it, I’ll just live with the dog shit on the floor. If Evie is found murdered in her apartment, she wants the place to at least look presentable. She imagines the detective shaking his big lovely head and saying, “What a shame that the life of such a nice, clean, well-organized girl had to come to an end such as this.” It’s a comforting way to live, picking up her underwear and socks, half-thinking about the detective and how impressed he’d be with her.

But now they are in front of her apartment. When Evie glances at the front of her building, she sees a fuzzy round figure sitting on the brick planter by the two doors. Her heart zigzags. Her mother! Her mother with her brown suitcase and sewing basket! But then the person moves and she sees it’s not her mother at all, but the old bald man from 2-C who appears periodically to smoke cigarettes and pace along the sidewalk in the dark.

Hippie Dad seems to be waiting for Evie to speak. In the dark of the cab, his face looks young and cavernous. “Isn’t that terrible?” he says.

As with Adopted Guy, Evie has lost the thread of his story. She shakes her head sympathetically. She hopes that’s the response he wants. “That is a shame.”

“I know. The entire face was just, like, gone.”

The cabbie says “I never trusted little dogs,” and Hippie Dad pays and they are on their way.

He walks up the stairs behind her. She jumps when he touches the small of her back as though to stop her if she starts to fall.

Once inside, they stand in the middle of the room, looking around her apartment together. She thought she was living wittily, being brave, starting over, no furniture to move besides a few things from college and an old brown sofa of her mom’s. Everything else has come from the Brown Elephant thrift store or been found on sidewalks, other people’s discarded furniture, including a wooden crate with “Bombay India” written in black ink on the side. She’s covered that in pictures cut from magazines; a collage of children, animals, women from the 50’s, a giant pair of lips, a cartoon man in a hat running from a speeding train. She has hung aprons up as curtains and nailed a rusty bicycle wheel rim to the wall for art. Now, she views her place for the first time as a stranger might. It doesn’t look interesting or eclectic at all. It looks sad and desperate to please, like a performing monkey in a tiny red hat.

Hippie Dad pulls off his wig. His hair is blond and curly and beautiful. He says, “I love your apartment. It’s so you.” He excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

The message light on the answering machine blinks three times in rapid succession, like a warning on a heart monitor. Evie throws a dishtowel over it and then unplugs the phone and tosses it in the oven.

She’s never had anyone stay over, with the exception of her ex-boyfriend from Iowa. That had been a disaster. The moment she saw his puffy, sweet face as he exited the airport terminal, she remembered why she couldn’t be with him–not someone so open and vulnerable, a person too much like herself or her mother to be of much help. As a couple, they could never make a decision, always deferring to the other person. Do you want to go see that movie? I don’t know. Do you? I don’t know. Do you want to just rent a movie? Only if you do. They’d stumble through life together in a series of indecisive moments that left them treading water in circles around each other until both were exhausted.

She feels very pleased with herself to have Hippie Dad in her apartment. She wants to tell her story to someone; have the person say, Do you know how dangerous that is? Did anyone see you leave with him? Did you even catch his last name? But it doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels like something she has to do.

They talk and talk and talk and Evie’s cat sits calmly on his lap. He pets the cat gently and absentmindedly. Evie tries not to interpret this motion to be a sign of what he’d be like in bed. They must tell each other everything, searching for some mystic parallels. Evie has to stop herself from crooning, Me too! every time he boldly claims that he loves something (the Ramones) or despises something (people who don’t know how to parallel park). Love the death penalty? Me too! Hate babies? Me too! She is not herself. All of her opinions have vanished in the night like so much smoke. She’s not even sure if she likes him.

It’s slipping away from them, the joking flirtation from the party. They start to cover mundane topics with the utmost seriousness. The winter hasn’t been so bad this year. No, it really hasn’t, has it?

“Wow, this is a really interesting space.” His eyes scan the room and he drums his fingers on his jeans. The more he talks, the more he slips into his dad hippie character.

She too seems to be acting more like her mother. She keeps jumping up to offer him things. Do you want chamomile tea? Are you hungry? I have cookies. Any second now, she’s going to lose herself completely and bring him a stiff drink, the newspaper, and offer to give him a foot massage.

“Would you like a glass of water?" He nods. She stands, a little wobbly in her heels, and goes into the kitchen. When she turns around, he wavers in the doorway, blocking the light from the living room. Then they’re kissing. "You’re tall," she says during a pause.

"It’s in my genetic make-up." He tugs at the collar of her dress. His mouth feels soft but not too soft, tongue wet but not too wet, and his arms around her waist urgent but not too urgent. She’s becoming distracted trying to remember which fairy tale this thought reminds her of, which in turn makes her think of the story of Hansel and Gretel and the wicked witch. And that reminds her of the oven and the phone in her own stove, a white and secret thing, waiting.

His mouth finds her ear. “So, what’s with the widow costume?” he whispers.

Evie feels her spine straighten, her fingers go cold.

When her mother called to say her stepdad had died, Evie felt a stabbing pain in the palm of her hand, where she’d always felt her sharpest grief. The pain wasn’t for him. She would miss him, probably, at some point, regret that they were never close, never said I love you or did any of the father-daughter things recommended by family therapists. Instead, when she heard that he was gone, she couldn’t stop thinking, Mom, mom, mom. She missed her so much in that moment.

She misses her still.

Evie steps out of her shoes and kicks them across the kitchen floor. She wishes there were someone to tell her what to do next. All that matters now is that he’s watching her. She’ll take him to her room. She will be someone else; someone who is not afraid of the dark or of being touched by another person. She will do whatever he wants. She will be amazing. Wonderful, even. A wonderful girl, at last. Aimee LaBrie’s short stories have been published in Beloit Fiction Journal, Iron Horse Literary Review, The Minnesota Review, and Eclipse, among others. "Ducklings," which appeared in Pleiades was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.