Up in Smoke

By Rachel McClain
I dont know if me, the horses or Sam sensed Daddy first; but where
seconds before the air had smelled of sweat and wed heard nothing but soft
snorting, now, a quiet fell, tucking around the semi-darkness like an extra
blanket.
The horses made no move to betray what theyd heard in the loft; but Sams
sweat froze in traceable rivulets on his back and I stopped picking hay off
m y s t i c k y t h i g h s t h e i n s t a n t I h e a r d D a d d y m e a n d e r t h r o u g h t h e d o o r.
He leaned against the half wall of the stall beneath us, settling in for
considering. Sam panicked and blindly began grasping for his pants, but I
clasped his wrist and gritted my teeth at him. Daddy reached into his pocket
w i t h o n e h a n d a n d o v e r t o a h o r s e s h e a d w i t h t h e o t h e r. I h e a r d s o f t
snorting start up again from below as Daddy scratched the horses muzzle.
Ease returned to the barn, but only some.
Through the cracks between the floorboard slats I saw his thin fingers
thumbing open his pack of smoking papers and flicking open his tobacco tin.
He delicately laid a single sheet of paper on the palm of his hand, cupping
it gently against his half-curled fingers. He lined a row of stringy tobacco
against the edge, pressing it into shape. My nose ran at the acrid memory
of the scent, though I couldnt smell the dark, neat pile from where I sat
now. I sucked in my breath and watched.
Once, hed rolled a cigarette and slowly and deliberately smoked it without
s a y i n g a w o r d t o m e w h i l e I p e r c h e d o n t h e e d g e o f t h e d i n i n g r o o m c h a i r,
hands clasped on my knees, waiting. Hed inhaled each sweet breath as if it
were the last one hed ever take before finally pronouncing that Id indeed
be allowed to go away to college in the fall. Hed roll a cigarette and smoke
it before reaching any major decision, then hed stick to it, even if he was
p r o v e n w r o n g l a t e r, l i k e t h e t i m e h e d f o u n d o u r s u p p o s e d l y s t o l e n t o o l s i n
the back shed a week after letting Chet, the farmhand go.
Daddy stopped short of sealing this cigarette. He pressed the tobacco firmly
and then studied it as if judging the amount, deeming it not adequate for
this thinking. He added more tobacco and then pressed it into shape again.
He never licked the paper in a smooth, single stroke; he always darted his
tongue in and out like a snakes when he sealed the edge, almost attacking
the paper in fits and starts of salivary globs. Not a wasteful man, he curled
the ends for fear of even the smallest bit falling to the ground.
The flame from the match illuminated his thin face and cast dancing
shadows across his brow. The deep crags of his cheekbones created swoops
and hollows that I saw even in the dim light of the barn with the quick flash
of the match. He cast a thin and meager shadow in that instant of light. The
b o o t s s t a c k e d i n t h e c o r n e r, g e a r l e f t b e h i n d a t t h e e n d o f a h a r d d a y s w o r k
done by strong men, didnt belong to him but to the men he employed.
The orange circle at the end of his cigarette gave off enough light to trace
the half-lines of his face; but after each slow inhale, a waft of exhaled
smoke obscured my view. Sam stared at me. He made a move to pick bits of
hay off my skin, which was prickly and red from the dried sweat and dust,
but I shooed his hand. Sam had worried about shaking Daddys hand at the

f r o n t d o o r, a b o u t c a l l i n g h i m s i r, a b o u t m a k i n g s u r e h e w a s s e e n o p e n i n g m y
car door . None of that mattered.
The orange circle grew brighter all the time and I could see Daddys
fingertips pinching the end of it close to his lips. The decision would soon
be reached. I was fond of Sam, but as I sat there, the night air beginning to
chill my skin and the cigarette running to its end, I considered that Sam
wasnt as smart or as handsome as I could find.
The orange circle burned the brightest yet and then out. Daddy stubbed it
a g a i n s t t h e b a r n w a l l a n d t h e n f l i c k e d i t o n t h e h a y. H e s n i f f e d t h e a i r a n d
cleared his throat.
W h o r e , h e s a i d . H e s t u f f e d h i s h a n d s i n h i s p o c k e t s a n d m e a n d e r e d o u t o f
the barn, into the dark.

Baby Birds in Boxes

by Parker Dorris
Start with the pots. The pots wont break. Theyre a good warm-up.
Get as many boxes as you need and never force anything inside. If it
d o e s n t f i t c o m f o r t a b l y, i t do e s n t f i t . You b r e a k s o m e t h i n g , yo u h a ve t o b u y
i t. You s i gn e d th e s am e co n t rac t I did. I he ard abo u t th is on e gir l w ho bro ke
a vase that cost fifteen thousand dollars. She had to drop out of school.
I do n t k n o w i f i t s r e a l l y t r u e . B u t i t s t h e p o l i c y, s o .
Y o u w r a p t h e p o t s i n t h i s b r o w n p a p e r, s a m e a s e v e r y t h i n g . I t d o e s n t
m a t t e r t h a t t h e p o t s a r e n t g o i n g t o b r e a k . T h i s i s w h a t t h e y p a y u s f o r. T o
w r a p e v e r y t h i n g i n b r o w n , l i k e t h e m o s t b o r i n g C h r i s t m a s p r e s e n t s e v e r.
And you wad up more paper to stuff the open spaces, so nothing can shake
around on the truck. The loading boys drive like theyre losing a race.
You c an t lis te n to m u s ic . No t wh i le you re w o rkin g. I t do e sn t m at te r th at
its so quiet or that theres no one to talk to. They want you to hear if the
client says something. Clients hate to see us listening to music, in general.
And turn off your phone! If they hear your phone, even if you dont answer
it, they get mad.
The client will need you for something, I dont know for what. Theyre
p aying for care. Th ink of it like tha t. We care for their th ings, we care for
t h e m . I f w e c o u l d w r a p t h e m i n b r o w n a n d s t o w t h e m a w a y, w e w o u l d . A n d
they would tip us huge.
Just look at this place.
N e v e r s a y s t u f f l i k e t h a t , J u s t l o o k a t t h i s p l a c e . N o t t o t h e l o a d i n g b o y s
a n d n e v e r, e v e r t o t h e c l i e n t . T h e y d o n t w a n t t o h e a r u s g a w k i n g . A n d w h o
k n o w s w h y t h e y r e l e a v i n g ? T h e m o n e y s a l l g o n e . S o m e b o d y h a d a n a f f a i r. A
kid died.
A f te r th e po ts , th e s i lver ware. You w rap e ac h f o rk, kn if e, an d s po o n
s e p a r a t e l y . Y o u c a n t u s e e n o u g h b r o w n p a p e r.
Everything until now was just to clear the way for all the glass. People in
houses like these love glass. They have tons of it. They dont even call it
glass. They call it crystal.
You ta ke th e glas s on e pie ce at a t ime . Bo th h an ds , te n f in ge rs . Don t h o ld
the glass up in the air any longer than you have to. Get it on the table or
the floor as fast as you can, and wrap it thick in brown.
Think of tucking in baby birds. Thats all youre doing.

The Creeping Dread

By Tim Hall
"Ow," I said, sitting up. "Ow."
"What is it?"
" W e l t s c h m e r t z , " I g a s p e d . " S u l f u r."
"Did you overdo it?"
"Silence. The arrow of my dignity is broken."
"I'll get the Advil."
I lay back on the pillow. Goddamn that Joni Mitchell. Who knew Miles Of
Aisles was so "funky"?
I was getting old. Still, what a concert that must have been. A magical
experience was had by all.
"Here you go, darling."
D o l l y h a n d e d m e t w o p i l l s a n d a g l a s s o f w a t e r. I s w a l l o w e d t h e A d v i l a n d
returned the glass.
"Thank you."
Dolly put the glass on the night table. I rolled slowly onto my side to face
h e r.
"Do you feel any better about your mom?" she asked. "Now that you have a
possible solution, I mean."
" Yes. Pos s ible s o lu t io n s are be s t. I c an su gge s t a path ; i t's u p to o th e rs
whether or not to follow it."
"Did you tell your mom she could move in with us?"
" Yes. "
"What did she say?"
"The proceedings were marred by a derogatory skepticism. She asked if we
had doctors out here, and churches, and wondered where we got our food
a n d i f w e h a d t e l e v i s i o n s a n d m a i l d e l i v e r y."
"But we're in Chicago."
"She sees Indians and buffalo."
"Has she heard from anybody else?"

"No."
"What did Jim say when you called him?"
" H e s a i d t h e b e a c h h o u s e w a s k i l l e r t h i s y e a r, a n d t h a t w e s h o u l d c o m e o u t
n e x t s u m m e r. "
"Did you tell him about your mom?"
" Yes. Th e co n n e c tio n s u dde n l y go t bad. "
"What about Meg?"
"Pathos and pork chops. Angst and anisette. Resentment and rigatoni."
"Well, we can increase the amount we send her each month."
"Not much. We don't know what our heating bills will be. Or how much for
buffalo repellent or to bribe the local triba l chief."
" We c a n f i n d t h e m o n e y. I ' l l d o w h a t e ve r i s n e c e s s a r y."
"Kiss me."
Dolly kissed me.
"I hear Augie. I'll bring him downstairs. Stay and rest."
" Th e a n g e ls in h e a ven a re ju n k ie w h o re s n e x t to you .

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Solutions.
Mom had always been difficult. She had a poster on the fridge, a head shot
o f an ost rich tha t was a ll ge e k-ne cked and spiky and had bulg ing e yes.
Underneath it said, Dont tell me to relax. Its only my tension thats
k e e p i n g m e t o g e t h e r. I h a d r e s e n t m e n t s , s u r e . B u t y o u d o n ' t l e t a n o l d
w o m a n s u f f e r.
Waiting for some cosmic apology was a sucker's game.
The Advil had begun to take effect, so I thrashed around on the bed a bit,
my fists punching the air above my head.
Swallow. Blast. Frack.
"Are you fighting with yourself again?" Dolly called from downstairs.
" Yes, go d dam n it, " I yel le d.

"Do you need help?"

"No, I've got it under control."
" O k a y. A u g i e ' s a s k i n g f o r y o u . "
"Right down."
I swung out of bed and pulled on my striped lounge pants and bear paw
slippers. Fuck a duck in a cow's ass and call it Benjamin. Meaning: what the
hell.
Cancel the Verizon account, that's sixty right there. Shut down the other
website, no use spending ten bucks a month on that. Drop the thermostat
a n o t h e r d e g r e e . N e t f l i x , a n o t h e r t e n . We c o u l d f i n d a w a y. W e w e r e a l r e a d y
drinking Folger's.
I inched my way downstairs and limped into the family room. Dolly had My
D o g S k i p i n t h e D V D p l a y e r. A u g i e w a s p l a y i n g w i t h a t r u c k .
" T h e r e ' s a s p e c i a l p l a c e i n h e l l f o r p e o p l e w h o n e g l e c t t h e e l d e r l y," I s a i d ,
still clenching and unclenching my fists.
Augie dropped the truck, ran over and hugged my legs. Dolly began smiling
and crying at the same time. So beautiful.
" H e k n o w s y o u ' r e u p s e t . H e ' s t r y i n g t o m a k e y o u f e e l b e t t e r."
I got on my knees and squeezed Augie so hard he burped. He giggled and
squeezed back, patting me on the back with his tiny hands, head on my
s h o u l d e r.
"I t'll be all r ight," Dolly sa id. "We'll figure someth ing out."
On the television, the dog they called Skip was making havoc at a baseball
g a m e . A u g i e w a s l a u g h i n g . I t w a s h i s f a v o r i t e p a r t . Two b o y s c o l l i d e d . O o f.
Ha ha ha!
I already knew the end. Willie Morris grew up and went to Oxford. Then he
became the youngest editor ever in the history of Harper's magazine. Later
he returned to the south, where he died in 1999. He thought of Skip every
d a y.
H e w a s a w o n d e r f u l w r i t e r. I b e t h e w o u l d h a v e h e l p e d h i s m o t h e r, t o o , i f
she needed it. Even if she didn't look like Diane Lane.

1995
By Ivan Faute
A f t e r h e s a t d o w n a t t h e b a r a n d o r d e r e d a w h i s k y s o u r, h e l a i d o u t , o n e
n e x t t o t h e o t h e r, a l i g h t e r, a f l a s h l i g h t , s e v e r a l b o o k s o f m a t c h e s a n d a
l a s e r p o i n t e r. I t s e e m e d t o b e m i l d l y m e t a p h o r i c a l i f a n y o n e w a n t e d t o g o
that route. Betty did.
"Let me guess," she said in her slightly drunk, lispy-voice, "you're a coal
m i n e r. O r m a y b e a p r i e s t ? ' T h i s l i t t l e l i g h t o f m i n e . ' H a . H o w a b o u t a
visionary?"
" E x c u s e m e , " t h e m a n t u r n e d t o h e r.
She turned toward him.
"How about a light?" she put a Virginia Slim menthol to her lips. "I know!"
she said.
T h e s t r a n g e r s h i f t e d i n h i s s e a t u n c o m f o r t a b l y.
" You r e t h e g o d o f f i r e . T h a t g u y. O h w h a t w a s h i s n a m e ? " S h e t u r n e d t o t h e
bartender and shook her cigarette at him. "Paul, what's the guy's name who
brought fire to people?"
P a u l , t h e b a r t e n d e r w a s s h a k i n g a m a r t i n i a t t h e o t h e r e n d o f t h e b a r.
"Thomas Edison," he yelled back.
" S m a r t a s s , " B e t t y s a i d . " N o t h i m . " S h e t u r n e d t o t h e s t r a n g e r. " Y o u k n o w
who I mean, don't you? I mean, you look educated and all."
" You m ean O rph e u s, " h e s aid.
" T h a t ' s h i m , " s h e s a i d . " T h a t ' s w h o y o u a r e I b e t . O r p h e u s . H e y, Pa u l , "
Betty yelled, "we got a Greek god here. Orpheus."
P a u l i g n o r e d h e r.
"Ever since this place was mentioned in some fucking magazine or novel or
something, it's been overrun with these types." She pointed with her unlit
cigarette to the blond Paul was serving.
T h e m a n n e x t t o B e t t y p i c k e d u p h i s l i g h t e r a n d h e l d i t l i t f o r h e r.
"Oh, thank you." She sucked in for several seconds. "This place used to be
go o d. Th e y h ad c he ap drin ks , it's r igh t he re on Ho l lyw oo d. You co u ld al ways
f i n d a p l a c e t o s i t . B u t n o t n o w, I h a ve t o g e t h e r e a t f o u r t h i r t y. F ou r t h i r t y
in the fucking afternoon to get this stool." She rested the cigarette in the
t h i c k , g l a s s a s h t r a y. " H o w l o n g h a v e I b e e n c o m i n g h e r e , P a u l ? "
P a u l a g a i n i g n o r e d h e r, a t t e n d i n g t o a n e w c r u s h o f c u s t o m e r s .
" A t l e a s t f i f t e e n y e a r s i f i t ' s b e e n a d a y."

T h e s t r a n g e r s h r u g g e d h i s s h o u l d e r s a t h e r.
Betty picked up her smoke and looked him up and down, leaning back on her
stool to get a view down to his shoes. She shook her head as if she knew
s om e th in g, to o k ano th e r drag, an d righ te d he rs e lf. " You r no t a yu pp ie are
you?"
T h e m a n t o o k a s i p o f h i s s c o t c h a n d w a t e r. " D o t h o s e e x i s t a n y m o r e ? I
suppose they do. No, I'm not."
" S o t h e n , w h a t a r e y o u ? " S h e h e l d o u t h e r h a n d , p a l m u p, e x p e c t a n t l y.
"Orpheus, a Greek god, like you said." He took another sip of his drink, and
Betty followed his example. "But there isn't much for us to do anymore. I
mean, I came to L.A. because you hear so much about the need for Greek
go ds . You kn o w, 'He h as th e bo dy of a G re e k go d. ' I t's n o t wh at th e y m e an t
though. Its not what they meant at all."
Betty stubbed out the remains of her Virginia Slim. She tapped the edge of
h e r g l a s s w i t h h e r n a i l a n d l o o k e d a s k a n c e a t t h e m a n b e s i d e h e r. " D o n t I
k n o w i t, s he s a id . Do n t I k no w it.

Late Summer Flu

By Jennifer Dorr
My baby tried corn for the first time. I roasted each ear til the husk split,
severed kernels with a bone blade, pulverized them between my teeth,
soaked them in a white heifers cream. She nursed this golden food from my
palm.
It seemed to go down well, until twilight, when I heard rumbling beneath
blankets. This was no ordinary wind. Her cries rent open the night. I ran my
f i n g e r s o v e r h e r, s e a r c h i n g f o r s l i v e r s o f w o o d o r g l a s s . B e n e a t h d e l i c a t e
shoulder blades, wings had sprouted from bloodless slits - featherless. Each
with the texture of woodland moss.
N a t u r a l l y, I c a l l e d t h e p e d i a t r i c i a n . I c o n f e s s e d , I f e d h e r c o r n . H e s a i d ,
P i s h - p o s h : A v i r u s i s g o i n g a r o u n d . I g a s p e d , B u t w i l l s h e b e a l l r i g h t ?
Shell be fine, though unrecognizable. Why dont you bring her down to the
office?
F l o r e s c e n t l i g h t b l e a c h e d m y r e t i n a s . S t i l l , I w a s i m p r e s s e d w i t h t h e d c o r.
T h e r e w e r e f u z z y , e g g - s h a p e d c h a i r s . A m e r r y , t o o t i n g t r a i n c i r c l e d . D r.
wore his lab coat with silver sneakers. A shock of white hair implied genius.
His cheeks were unlined: egg shell.
I t h a s p r o g r e s s e d f u r t h e r t h a n I a s s u m e d . H i s f l a w l e s s b r o w d i d n o t
r e g i s t e r c o n c e r n . G i v e h e r t h i s . P e r h a p s w e c a n s t o p i t . H e p l a c e d a
platinum pill in my hand. Sweat pooled around its cool heft. But how will
s h e s w a l l o w t h i s ? I a s k e d . M o t h e r s a l w a y s f i n d a w a y .
F r o m a f a r, h i s s e c r e t a r y l o o k e d y o u n g . I w a s m i s l e d b y h e r w i g o f b l o n d
curls. Underneath, matted black tendrils peeked. Her face was an I rish cliff.
S he grab be d m y w ris t, ta lo n s diggin g. H a! You c an n o t s to p it. Th ro w ou t
h i s s n a k e o i l . You m u s t d a n c e u p o n r e d f r u i t f o r y o u r g i r l . W h a t , w h a t d i d
y o u s a y ? I s p u t t e r e d . You r c o - p a y m e n t i s t e n d o l l a r s , M a a m .
I c a j o l e d , c o a t i n g h i s t r e a t m e n t i n s u g a r, b u t i t m a d e h e r g a g . I f o u n d
m y s e l f s q u a t t i n g o n t h e f l o o r, s k i n n i n g b e e t s w i t h m y b o n e b l a d e , s u c k i n g
pits from scarlet plums, disemboweling pomegranate. A jungle haze
blanketed the bathroom as I stewed red fruits in my tub. I stepped into
b r o t h . A b e a t r o s e f r o m m e m o r y. I t o r e a t m y b r a i d w i t h s t a i n e d p a l m s ,
hoofed and swirled til my heels cracked.
W h e n I w o k e c u r l e d a r o u n d h e r b o d y, h e r s m i l e w a s s k y a f t e r s t o r m s . H e r
w i n g s b e c a m e f i l a m e n t s o f a i r. S t i l l , I c a n n o t t e l l y o u i f s h e s c u r e d .

Playing for the Eighth Time Today

by David Macpherson
The girl dragged here by her father examines her fidgeting shoes, twines
h e r f i n g e r s a b o u t h e r s c a r f , a n d s p i n s a r o u n d t h e g a l l e r y f l o o r, a s i f h o p i n g
s h e l l b e a s k e d t o l e a v e . S h e s t o p s , h u f f s o u t e x a s p e r a t e d a i r, c o c k s h e r
head at something heard and says, Dad, whos that ? The person singing on
the stereo?
The father smiles, happy to be knowledgeable, to be needed. Thats Chet
B a k e r. H e h a d a g r e a t v o i c e , d i d n t h e ? T h e v o i c e m a k e s h i m s h i v e r, a s i f
hes standing on top of a grave.
S o u n d s l i k e a g i r l , s h e s a y s . D i d a l l g u y s s i n g l i k e t h a t b a c k t h e n ?
N o . J u s t h i m . H e s c a n s d o w n t h e r o w o f p h o t o g r a p h s m o u n t e d o n t h e
gallery wall. All black and white photos of dead jazz men, singing passages
to the next world, the next cul-de-sac, the next chorus. He beckons his
d a u g h t e r t o h i s s i d e . T h a t s h i m . T h a t s C h e t B a k e r.
S h e s t u d i e s t h e s t o o p e d f i g u r e f r a m e d b e f o r e h e r. W o w . H e s p r e t t y .
The father looks at his daughter and the light burning about her face. Is
this one of those moments for an object lesson? Should he tell her about
Chet Baker? About the needle, the broken teeth, the hand not played? How
all that beauty was given away? Should he embrace this teaching moment?
He laughs. Funny to think she would listen if he did.
H e a p p r a i s e s t h e p h o t o . H e w a s . H e w a s v e r y p r e t t y , h e s a y s w i t h
u n e x c a v a t e d i r o n y.
T h e g i r l l e a n s i n f u r t h e r. Y o u b e t . H e s d e l i c i o u s .
The father shakes his head in the expected manner and surrenders. Alright.
I said if you came in here with me, Id get you lunch. Lets find someplace
r i d i c u l o u s l y o v e r p r i c e d a n d s n o o t y .
T h e g i r l r e s e t s . N o w y o u r e t a l k i n g . S h e t h r e a d s h e r a r m t h r o u g h h i s a n d
leads him out to the world.
Leaving the voice singing in the empty space. Bouncing off the pristine
white walls again and again, with no good place to go.

The Hidden Lining

By Elaine Chiew
Carla's pocket has sprung a hole. Her car keys and loose change rattle
around in the hem of her coat. Shoppers stare as she flips the coat up
waist-high to burrow her fist deep inside the silk lining, chasing elusive
o b j e c t s . H e r d a u g h t e r, B e c c a , s t a r e s f a s c i n a t e d . F o u r y e a r s o l d , s h e h a s a
new passion for holes, crannies, basements and otherwise secret
compartments. The pair of shoes Carla's spent all afternoon searching for
dangle from Beccas limp wrist.
Carla locates the car keys, but not the loose change. The mall car park is
full of milling pedestrians. A reeking Santa rings a bell as an elf holds out a
t i n - c a n f o r c h a r i t y. C a r l a w a l k s p a s t , a p o l o g e t i c . M u d d y s n o w l i e s i n p u f f e d
tracks. The wind snaps.
A t t h e c a r, C a r l a t a k e s o f f h e r c o a t . B e c c a i s a b o u t t o g e t i n , a n d t h e c a r
d o o r s l a m s s h u t . F o r a s e c o n d , m a y b e t w o , C a r l a c a n ' t s e e h e r.
When the car door swings open, a feeling of disbelief, of being duped,
washes over Carla. She looks up and down the car length. She can't see
B e c c a ' s m o u s y, r e d - r i b b o n e d, p i g t a i l s . B e c c a ? S h e g l a n c e s u p t h e r o w o f
cars, she scans around. Her eyes pick out a flapping coat here, a tweed
s l e e ve t h e r e , a j a u n t y h a t , a r a i n b o w - c o l o r e d s c a r f. H o n e y, t h i s i s n o t i m e
t o p l a y . C a r l a c i r c l e s h e r c a r. O n a w h i m , s h e l o o k s u n d e r n e a t h , b u t s e e s
only oil-stains. "Where are you honey-pie? Becca!
Her eyes are faster than her legs. They are hounds, racing up and down the
aisles of cars, fastened at waist-length, looking for flying pigtails, a pink
gingham-checked skirt, a lime-sherbet scarf. An old lady in a peacoat
a c c o s t s h e r, " L o s t s o m e t h i n g ? "
"Have you seen a little girl with pigtails, about ye high?" Carla is frantic
n o w . S o o n , t w o o r t h r e e s h o p p e r s a r e h e l p i n g h e r, s q u e l c h i n g a m o n g t h e
tufted snowtracks, zigzagging among cars, yelling for Becca.
Did she leave Becca at the shops? Carla begins to doubt the certainties of
her mind. Real and unreal trade places through a thin membrane. How
flimsy reality is. Carla dashes back inside the mall, revisiting all the shoe
shops. Beccas little voice echoes in her mind - shrill and imperative, I am
m a g i c , M a m a . I c a n s h r i n k t o t h e s i z e o f a p e a .
N o o n e h a s s e e n B e c c a . T h e s h o p a t t e n d a n t s d o n ' t e v e n r e m e m b e r h e r.
There's a banging in Carlas ears. Her ribs hurt, her eyes sting. Her world
u n z i p s . O n t h e o t h e r s i d e , C a r l a g l i m p s e s a n a l t e r n a t e r e a l i t y, o n e o f m u t e
d i s b e l i e f . A n o t h e r C a r l a s t a r e s u n b l i n k i n g b a c k a t h e r, l i k e a w a t e r y
reflection.
B a c k a t t h e c a r, t h e o l d l a d y i n t h e p e a c o a t a d m o n i s h e s h e r, " Y o u s h o u l d
have watched her more closely!"
The wind has picked up now, the late afternoon gray shrouded by cold. The
old lady goes home. The others wish her luck, offer to call the police. Carla
s o b s o p e n l y.

" T h i s i s n o t f u n n y," s h e k e e p s r e p e a t i n g . T h a t f e e l i n g o f d i s b e l i e f w a s h e s
back, a tidal wave. Carla remembers a jigsaw puzzle she'd dismantled when
Becca was two, learning to do one for the first time. One minute whole, the
next second, two jagged pieces were missing, nowhere to be found, as if
they'd slipped into another dimension through a hidden lining.
Just then, the car handle jiggles. Carla gasps, she sees the edges of coat,
the bag of shoes lying on the carseat, flapping from the wind through the
o p e n c a r d o o r. B e c c a s t a n d s t h e r e , p i g t a i l s m u s s e d , a p l e a s e d g r i n o n h e r
face. "I went diving," she whispers.
Becca holds out her hands. Lying in her palms are shiny pennies, dimes, and
quarters.

The Intercom
By Amanda Nazario
Since Joe and I broke up, I havent been sleeping very much. I catch naps,
an hour or two, no more. I think about Joe all the time, but Im not
heartbroken. In moments of weakness I find myself hoping he doesnt hate
me, but I know theres no way he would. Because when I think of him I feel
love, and sadness, but primarily love.
Last summer I went to Joes childhood house for the last time. It was also
t h e l a s t t i m e I s l e p t w e l l , d e e p l y, c o n s i s t e n t l y, n e x t t o h i m o n t h e f o l d o u t i n
his moms basement. Joes mom cooked all our breakfasts and did our
laundry; she was doting and overbearing, and not, as Id expected her to
be, sad. But she did show me two photos of Joe as a child that moved me
almost to tears. I think she might have known they would, I think that
might have been why she showed them.
P i c t u r e o n e w a s o f J o e a n d h i s b r o t h e r. J o e w a s f i v e , h i s b r o t h e r w a s a b a b y
i n a w a l k e r. S t a n d i n g b e f o r e t h e w a l k e r w e a r i n g f e e t y p a j a m a s , J o e h e l d a
giant hairbrush over his brothers head, the bristle end just barely touching
t h e b a b y s w i s p y h a i r. J o e w a s l o o k i n g s t r a i g h t a t t h e c a m e r a , s u p p r e s s i n g a
grin, his non-hairbrush-holding hand turned up in a shruglike, Who knew?
I h a v e n e v e r m e t J o e s b r o t h e r, o f c o u r s e . W h e n h e d i e d J o e w a s j u s t
starting to date girls; Joe has said this explains everything I need to know.
P i c t u r e t w o w a s o f t h e m o m , t h e l i t t l e b r o t h e r, a n d J o e . T h e y w e r e a l l e a t i n g
ice cream cones. Joes mom was looking at the camera, holding her cone
and smiling. His chubby brother was hugging her with one arm, smiling too.
Joe, age eight, his hair neatly side-parted, sat apart from them. He was
frowning down at his ice cream coneas if there was something wrong with
it, but he didnt know what was wrong with it yet.
Last night Joe was supposed to call me. We spoke on the phone and decided
we were ready to see each other again, and he said hed give me a call
when he got off work. He never did. I was disappointed, but not surprised. I
ate dinner in a restaurant by myse lf, came home and wrote emails to a
bunch of people, then lay in bed trying to sleep. I enjoyed doing all of these
things, even the lying awake, which I am still doing.
In bed I think of Joe and love him. I think of the little boy frowning at the
i c e c r e a m c o n e . I w o n d e r, w h y i s i t t h a t w e a l w a y s t h i n k o f t h e m a s c h i l d r e n
when we forgive them? Ive heard it a bunch of times before, from my
girlfriends, and Ive said it myself a bunch of times too, not just about
Joe. He was like a little kid.
At three in the morning my intercom rings, a
bee-doo, bee-doo. Disoriented, I pick up the
black-and -white mon itor to kick on and show
outside. My heart knocks around. No one has
before, in the middle of the night.

loud synthetic-doorbell noise:

r e c e i v e r, a n d w a i t f o r t h e
me what was happening
ever surprised me like this

The intercom is the fanciest thing in my apartment. The first time Joe
visited me here he couldnt stop talking about how fancy it was, and how
fascinating.

The disp lay flashes into view, and in murky b lack-and -white I see a boys
back in a wide-striped polo shirt. Ive always admired the way Joe can wear
t h o s e s h i r t s h e h a s t h e s h o u l d e r s a n d a r m s o f a m u c h yo u n g e r g u y, a n d a t
thirty is still mistaken for twenty-one or twenty-two sometimes, especially
in those shirts. In the monitor the boys head is bowed, contrite, sad.
C l i c k i n g t h e b u t t o n t o o p e n t h e f r o n t d o o r, I s t a r t b r e a t h i n g f u n n y a n d
telling myself things. I dont press the talk button; I dont have to ask
who it is. No sex, I tell myself. Sex right now, I couldnt handle. We will
turn the lights on and talk to each other from opposite ends of the
couch. But of course Ill allow him the initial hug. Depending on how he is if he is crying, I might hold him a long time, pet the side of his head, kiss
h i s d a m p c h e e k . A f t e r t h e h u g w e l l t a l k h o n e s t l y t o e a c h o t h e r, m a y b e a l l
n i g h t , m a y b e f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e e v e r.
A m i n u t e g o e s b y a n d n o o n e a p p e a r s a t m y d o o r. T h e i n t e r c o m r i n g s a g a i n .
I n m y b u i l d i n g t h e r e a r e t w o d o o r s i n t h e l o b b y, s o s o m e t i m e s I h a v e t o
buzz people in twice. If they dont make it inside the vestibule on time,
they get stuck there until the second buzz. I lift the receiver again, try the
door-opener button, and find it isnt working. The monitor comes on.
I see that the boy is Efrain, my supers son. He leans into the speaker on
t h e w a l l , a n d s u d d e n l y I h e a r h i s v o i c e : H e y, I m s o r r y, c a n y o u b u z z m e
i n ? M y d a d s s l e e p i n g . I m r e a l l y s o r r y .
E f r a i n i s f o u r t e e n n o w ; e v e r y t i m e I s e e h i m h e s g r o w n a h a l f - i n c h t a l l e r.
H e f a v o r s s t r i p e d p o l o s h i r t s a n d i s g o i n g t o b e r e a l l y h a n d s o m e o n e d a y. I
p r e s s t h e b u z z e r, h e o p e n s t h e d o o r, a n d t h e m o n i t o r g o e s d a r k .