A screaming child is pounding her feet on the floor, angry at everyone for the moment. Two rooms down Reba McEntire belts out, “Because of you, I never stray too far from the sidewalk.”
“Stop,”
“No,”
“Mine.” The two younger sisters fight over the favorite toy of the moment, screeching and slapping.
Water dripping in the kitchen sink, “ping, ping, ping, ping, ping,” echoes into my ear drum. Not even five lines, and my husband’s car is driving into the driveway, next is the thump, thump, thumping of his heavy boots stomping the mud onto the porch.
Then for a brief second there is nothing, I type out a few more lines.
The fan blows a soft breeze onto the back of my neck, making a slight buzzing sound.
“It’s my turn”
“But, it’s my bike”
“I want to ride”
“No, mine” The silence is broken by yet another fight, this time a tricycle.
My husband runs over the details of his day while my youngest sits in my lap sucking her thumb, humming.
Some male country singer is now on the radio singing an easy going song about a country road. Somewhere in the background I can hear the buzzing sound of the hummingbird’s wings as he eats from the feeder on my porch.
The helicopter flies over my house, maybe on the way to the fire out in Magnolia. This morning the smoke is thicker here, sticking to my lungs.
The wind blowing through the house rattles the papers on my desk, trying its hardest to send one flying.
My father was a traveling sports writer and didn’t make very much money. I couldn’t knock my dad for taking so much work. The traveling part is what kept him away from my mother, and divorcing her was a risk even I woudn’t be willing to take. I came to understand at an early age that how I learned to tie my shoes wasn’t going to be the only thing I would have to do on my own. My mother called these neglectful acts “social experiments.”
“But Mom, how are they social if I am doing the experiments alone?” I turned my head to the side looking up at her with eyes of very limited innocence left.
“Well it’s social because you’re… using society as your compass but your integrity to make the end decision.”
“Like telling on Melissa when she eats her hair at nap time?” I blurted out, still following each word she spoke with a plan for a full sentence.
“No, like deciding to take a taxi home instead of getting a ride from a nice smelling young man when his wife is not around, or finding a way to get something for free before you try and steal it.”
From the beginning I knew I was screwed. My parents have spoken to me like an adult since the age of four. My grandfather died before I was born and left my mother a very large inheritance. My father always told me that before my mom got the money, she was just a quiet southern belle who wasn’t very interested in material things. The mother I came to know walked around our house like it was a palace and smoked cigarettes from a long, jewel-covered, formal cigarette holder. She also never left her bedroom without a fur coat on, even in the summer. My father says my mother was born in Alabama and, before the money, used to have a soft southern drawl. The mother I came to know had some kind of European accent with no specific origin. I think she just takes every haughty accent she had ever heard in the movies and mixes them all together to make her own. I think my mother believes she looks like the late princess Diana and sounds like Mary Poppins. To me she looks like Cruella DeVille on crack and sounds like Julia Child. When my mother bought me a golden retriever puppy for my seventh birthday, I thought my loneliness would disappear. Six weeks later I came home from school and couldn’t find my new best friend.
“Uh, mom?” I said, closing my eyes as tight as they could shut.
“Yes, darling.”
“Where’s the dog?” I asked her, holding my breath.
“Well I am sorry plumb-cake, but that little beast was frolicking with my Begonia bush. I sent the dog away to run around on a farm in the country.” My mom smiled at me, revealing her blindingly over-bleached teeth and brought a small cup to her mouth while pretending to sip. She put the cup down and it clanked on the gleaming silver tray below it.
“Would you like some tea dear?” I moved toward her and looked down to see my disappointed reflection bounce off the base of the shiny teacup set.
“No thanks. I’ll pass,” I said too loud.
“Well, I hope you like the tea set I just got you as a new gift to replace that varmint who eats flowers.”
I smiled with my teeth clenched and grabbed the cold silver handles on either side of the tray. I lugged it all the way upstairs, then into my room and placed it on my small pink table. I set the table by placing a tea cup in front of each chair and stood up to marvel the ridiculousness of the situation.
When I heard the garage door open, I knew that was my mother’s way of telling me she was leaving.
Sometimes I would get lucky enough to run after her before she sped off, but I stopped because she would pretend to not see me anyway. I ran downstairs to the hallways closet where my Dad kept his clothes. I stood on my tippy toes to unhook some of his ties and ran back into my room. I took five of my least favorite stuffed animals and tied their necks to the back of each pink chair, propping them up into a sitting position. I stood back and looked at my stuffed animal suicide tea party. I left them there for three months before my Mom noticed.
You used to be vibrant and alive,
the perfect match,
for two of a kind.
as the years marched on,
every aching step seemed to take that terrible toll.
Seeing as your tongue and sole,
tore away like hide from the bone,
that wretched night
the sprocket pierced your steel mould.
Alas you give way,
fraying to pieces,
for you were not right once that day.
You fell apart like a melting Reece’s Pieces,
leaving the other
in total disarray.
The shoe Left,
is now lonely forever,
for the Right,
has descended to a place of no return.
For without the right one,
the one left,
will forever yearn.
Hand by: John Owens, Acrylic and string on paper, 2010.
The Perfect Wife by: Curtis Craig
The sun floods the room. I wake slowly. It’s Sunday morning, another day to spend with my husband. I walk down to the kitchen and begin making breakfast, like I do every morning. I enjoy making breakfast for my husband, which is what a good wife does. And I am, of course, a good wife. In fact, I am a great wife. I cook, I clean, and I take care of my husband and never complain a bit, as mother always said that a good wife does. The coffee is going, waking him up with its aroma. Finally he joins me.
“Good morning honey,” he says with a kiss.
“It is about time you wake up; you plan on helping me with breakfast?” I firmly say.
“How can I help? Would you like me to start the toast, or maybe scramble the eggs?” He asks with a smile. I quietly laugh. I make the best scrambled eggs and my toast is always a perfect golden brown.
“We will end up with burnt toast and dried, cold eggs. Don’t bother!” I quickly responded. The expression on his face is that of a hurt child.
“Well then I will pour us coffee.” he says as he pulls down coffee cups. I swiftly grab the mugs.
“Now you know these are only for guests, we never drink out of them. Don’t trouble yourself with the coffee; you always put too much creamer in it. I’ll do it myself.” He shrugs his shoulders and goes to the table. He picks up the sports page and begins to read. The nerve of him, just sitting there waiting for me to serve him. Here I am always pulling my share and there he is doing what he does best, being second-rate.
I think for a moment, this is the fourth time in a row that I have cooked him breakfast without him even lifting a finger to help. He’s far from a good husband, far from perfect, and nothing compared to me. The timer goes off.
“What’s all that smoke coming from?” he asks.
“The toast is ready.” I quickly remove the scrambled eggs from the microwave as they bubble over the rim of the bowl.
“Breakfast is done. Your plate is on the counter.” I sit down at the table with my plate, another flawless breakfast. He is so lucky. What would he do without me?
Her hands were like porcelain, smooth to the touch and perfect. I see her now, under the mulberry tree with that withered old book thumbing the pages as if they weren’t really fragile. This place, this unintended collection of trees was our safe haven. She always dressed as she is now, in a fine dress and a sun hat but never with her shoes. Truly a dastardly habit for a lady of her position.
Our eyes connect and she listens to the vocalization of my curiosity before she answers,
“I, darling, respect them.”
“So the lovely Cecilia respects her hands yet not her feet?” It’s rather a silly thing to tease but the pampered miss exchanges a playful glance with me. She bookmarks the withered tome with a ribbon and drops it on the grass.
“I’ve walked this earth without shoes since the days I was no taller than the fence post,” she fidgets with her hat as she speaks. “And I have yet to bear witness to disease or any other life threatening nonsense mother prattles on about.”
I smile as I sit, facing her but busying myself with pulling blades of grass from the ground. She smiles at me, wrapping her arms around her legs.
“What’s troubling you?” she asks.
“Do you still love me?” A sigh escapes her but she laughs it away. Snatching her book she beats my arm with it and I can’t help but join in the laughter.
“I swear I’ll have to beat that negativity from you,” she says, dropping the book. I’m not one to linger on things, bit it is she who is making the larger sacrifice.
“Cecilia your education, your status will be ruined,” I tell her. She rolls her beautiful olive colored eyes and smiles again.
“Yes, an education that won’t grant me ladyship or a suitor that isn’t French. To what do I owe this world?” Cecilia tucks her legs beneath her and smooths our her pale violet skirts.
“It’s just-“
“Have a cigarette?” she interrupts. Defeated by her attempts to escape the conversation I pull out my gold tin full of Taddy’s Clowns. I hand her one, retrieving my matches and offering them over. She lights her cigarette and takes a long pull, allowing the smoke to ooze out of her mouth as if it were a liquid.
“God how I wish she would stop being so stupid.” Cecilia practically spits the intended insult. I follow her gaze. Her sister Millian, Millie for short, chases after ducks and shrieks with laughter as she flaps her yellow skirts to rouse them.
“It’s all just good fun,” I say. Cecilia’s eyes fix on me as she takes another puff. Her fine eyebrows pull together indicating an oncoming question, and I find myself returning her curiosity.
“Why are you so optimistic when Millie’s around?” Cecilia’s effort to conceal her smirk proves fruitless and we both succumb to another fit of laughter.
“I want children,” I say. Cecilia’s eyes are now following Millie as she dashes from the ducks that have mustered the courage to fight back.
“I want three. Girls,” she says with a nod, blowing smoke from her lips.
“No sons?” I ask. Cecilia shakes her head at me, wrinkling her nose.
“No sons.” Our attention is coaxed to Millie as she bounds across the field toward us.
“Ceci!” Millie shrieks with glee, but Cecilia only groans.
“Compose yourself Millian.” Before another word is uttered, the girl tumbles into her lap.
“Did you see?” Millie giggles. I frown a little at the look of irritation on Cecilia’s face but elect to stay quiet.
“I have a cigarette, Millie! I could have burned you.”
“Mama says you’re not supposed to smoke. Ladies never smoke,” Millie says as she sits back on the grass.
“I’m not a lady,” Cecilia says. Millie gathers the tangled mess of dark hair in her chubby hands and looks at me with identical green eyes.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” she asks me. Before I can respond, Cecilia swats at Millie’s ear. Millie cries out in surprise, but then begins to whimper.
“Why did you do that?” Millie asks, batting at Cecilia’s arm. Cecilia blows smoke into her face before flicking the ashes.
“It’s unbecoming to be rude like the child you are,” she says. Millie lets out an awful wail.
“You’re always so rude to me!”
“Cecilia,” I scold, but Cecilia only looks back at me, finishing her cigarette while Millian continues to cry.
“She shouldn’t act like a child,” she says at last. “She’s mother’s only hope after all.”
I place my hand on Millian’s shoulder, but she slaps it away.
“Go away peasant!” Cecilia slaps her this time, and Millian returns the favor.
“Apologize, Millian,” Cecilia says.
“Cecilia, it doesn’t matter,” I reassure her. Anything to stop the argument.
“I’m going to tell mother!” Millian declares as she jumps up on her feet. Cecilia lets out a sharp sigh before she reaches over and pushes the small girl down on her rear. Millian lets out another shout, trying to swat Cecilia’s arm away. Cecilia dodges and grabs me, slapping her lips against mine. I hear Millie’s gasp but am too entranced by Cecilia’s tongue to care.
We pull away and I stare into her eyes to find that they burn like the fire in my belly. She smiles at me, and I let out a small chuckle.
That is when I remember Millie. She speeds off through the field calling into the air the secret we’ve practiced for the past two years.
“Mama! Mama! Cecilia kissed the servant girl!”
My gaze returns to Cecilia who I find is still gazing at me. An amused smirk spreads across her face.
“Have another cigarette?” she asks. I hold out the case and she lights another Taddy’s Clown. I join her. We blow at the same time, and she leans against the Mulberry tree. For a moment we are quiet, simply listening to Millie’s lingering accusations and the birds chirping in the tree above.
“The carriage should arrive shortly,” I say. Cecilia nods, continuing to smoke.
“Good,” she says, reaching for her book and placing it on her lap.
you have not yet heard the thunder
the lightning hit
and you with your child-eyes under cover
missed the news that the world is over
and you with your white hands
still reaching for the bright light candy
don’t you know the hall is empty
that the fear had been set free
and you with your skin still smelling of that baby cream
do not even know enough to scream
cannot find the words to ask me what I mean
when I say that it’s the end of the scene
that all that’s left is truth and that it’s obscene
and you just look and want to know if you’re the king
if I’ll be your bright light queen
and you wonder why, you wonder why I scream
you wonder
what put me under
what pushed me over this edge
and from the dark I’ll whisper
it was this, it was knowledge
and you’ll go back to sleep
because ignorance is cheap
California Vineyard by: Taresa Cardon, Oil on canvas, 2012.
Andy by: Luis CHavez, Jr.
Andy tells me that in a couple of days he is going to have more than thirty years working in this place. He says your nose learns to get used to the foul odor after repeated number of dives into an ocean of flies, that your eyes grow protective layers to keep your sanity in and the deranged thoughts out. The sun’s heat will mess with your head like that. And your hands, well they develop thick calluses, tough, permanent, necessary. I’ve been a pig farmer for a little over five weeks now, and I assumed my spirit would be made up of more durable materials. I remember at the end of a hard days work, Andy and I would go down to the end of the lake and observe people skipping rocks towards an exhausted sunset. But Andy, Andy saw dignity in those rocks. He envisioned honesty; he experienced poetry in the beautiful fact that when pushed, they briefly moved forward. Andy will gather tons of swine manure and fill up as many barrels as he possibly could, and for some reason he constantly moved twice as fast as the rest of us; he was always the farmer’s favorite. Andy gives me a thumb up. Most depressing expression I’ve ever seen. Sometimes when I come across that lonely thumb, I imagine the reason to why we were placed on this earth was to carry the wings for lazy angels who take others for granted. That we were exclusively chosen to polish the devil’s filthy boots using our hearts to scrub away the grime that refuses to wash off. Andy tells me there is integrity in this, a good day’s work for an honest man, that there is wondrous music waiting to be heard that all you had to do was just listen. But what kind of song plays from the mounds of shovels from the demon’s abominating shit? The liquid stench of terror, the mist that consumes every inch of my sanity that has me shoveling up my virtues from my soul! That has me paralyzed from the very breaths I take from fear of what I might conceive next. Even after being surrounded by a beautiful ocean of red roses, the mere thought of inhaling the slightest molecule of air is enough to revive my nightmare. Is there really glory in this? Or is that what they tell us skidding rocks so we can chisel our hearts out and continue skipping on with our lives. Andy says he can’t picture it like that, he says that if it wasn’t for people like us, than the whole world wouldn’t be able to spin in its pristine direction. That we are one of the selected few who chose to rise above all when it was just simpler to give up and run, and it might not be a real elegant living but it’s important to have someone step up, and yeah maybe he’s right. Maybe I am just an ignorant working class American who cheated his way into college. Perhaps now I am too good to be a part of the millions of people who struggle everyday to prepare a grand feast for their life’s, who will always be picky. So I take a deep breath and put my ego aside, return back to work. And on a hot boiling day, before a merciless sun, I make a kind note to help Andy fill up the last remaining barrels and I say, “I’ve had this thought for a while now man, maybe the reason why skidding rocks can’t skip backwards is because if they could, they’d obliterate the ones who threw them in an instant.” Instead we’re obligated to leap forward over a distant ocean hoping we can make it to the other side and once again become proud boulders ourselves but most likely drown on the way there, suffer for a common cause and never look back, we can’t even come close to comprehend, is this! Is this really worth it man? Andy gives me a thump up, most depressing expression I’ve ever see. Fades quietly into his work.
Oaken firmness planted the day
When mists crept dismal,
Hiding shadow;
Baking rays cut the haze
Praising
Medicines of different hours
Erasing walls between cyclical acts
Roots
Tender and remedial
Stretch love
Among tubers under grass
Feeding, breathing, storing;
Increasing in preparation
To courteously declare good night to mere loathing;
Maladies, melodies, still the conversation
Converting looking-glass seeming
To real thing clarifying-
Faint boot prints outlining style;
Wit and piano lessons playing,
Playing interpreter to winter moons
And whale-song moans.
Medicine-fruit sails around the room
In language lightships while
Complaining distant echoes
Bloom and bud in cacophonous cackles.
Wild Beasties by: Kathlene Lisle, Oil on canvas, 2012.
North of Paradise by: LD Novick
Sure as silence chases sound
And restless youth will turn the page
The warbled drone of days long past
Diminished by the early morning’s reverie
Echoes across a chasm of darkness
And into the canyon below
Paid in full by a fractured riverbed
Because Sheriff always keeps his word
Locked and left out the fool barred the door
Tonight children will sleep on the porch
Amongst dirty floors and discarded squares
A metal gate keeps the world outside
One chain-linked society of four
Sheriff skipped town Sunday
And nobody seen him since
We live and die by the dirt and grime
As dust choked lungs breathe a blazing sky
Where old men tell tall tales
To doe eyed children
Mostly lies of Highwaymen
And some dead hero from afar
But also of simpler times
In calloused voices of reason
God up and left
The rest who had nowhere else to go
Panicked by the prospect of paradise
They headed North to be
Cursed by those who remain
Like the drunkard throws a fit at the five and dime
‘Cause you still can’t buy a beer on His day
So we’ll scour our hands pink by the fluorescent light
Face grown roots long past due
Our paradise squandered by wills of wicked men
And yet, we still pray for rain
