One Page #44

We were sitting in her living room and she was reading me paragraphs from her latest book. I was across the room from her on the couch watching her as she stood by the window overlooking the busy street. The streetlamps shone on her face, but I could only see the curve of her jaw since she was mostly turned toward the window. Her reflection mimicked her face as she read, animated and involved. I spent more time watching her face than listening to her words, and I knew I would pay for that mistake soon enough. She was nearing the end of the first chapter and I knew she would turn around at look at me, her eyes questioning what I thought. I would have little to say but could have told her in detail how her expressions changed as she read. It wasn’t her story that prevented me from hearing her words. I could say that it was mostly because I am a visual reader and need the page in front of me, my eyes reading the lines, to actually absorb the content. But this wasn’t entirely true. Mostly, I was captivated. I couldn’t stop looking at her face, and I was distracted by the curve of her lips that undulated as she spoke and I thought of wild horses racing off through fields of wheat. I watched her hair bob gently back and forth as she moved her head around in emphasis of the words, and I thought of trees bending in the breeze. Not just any trees, but trees that were embedded deep in the forest where few human feet passed by and songbirds chirped in a rowdy chorus. I watched her nostrils flare when the one evil character entered and significantly bowed and tipped his top hat, and I thought of wild turkeys screaming at their enemies with open jaws and snapping teeth. Her face created a story that I could watch, like a film, whereas her written story, however intriguing, were words that whispered into my ears and then blew back out in a swirl of dust and feathers. There was a pause, and I saw her face grow still in her reflection. The streetlamps twinkled in her eyes that swam with the effort of reading aloud, something she didn’t normally enjoy but made her anxious and her breath come quickly. She turned. She looked at me with questioning eyes. I smiled back at her and clapped my hands with vigor, a grin spreading wider on my face. She blushed, and grinned back at me. But I was applauding not for her story, which I am sure was articulate and engaging, but for the transformations that changed her face with every second, with every word that she spoke. I clapped for the blowing wheat and the whispering trees and the screaming turkeys and her breath the fogged the window with steam that made me hot. She bowed and promised to read the next chapter tomorrow.

One Page #43

The beginning of a storm starts with a growl of thunder, like a hungry stomach. And then a wind that picks up speed as it turns leaves over and sends trees crawling over each other. I am always amazed that they remain upright, no matter how fiercely the wind howls. Although branches do come down, and sometimes whole trunks, and I hear sirens screaming and imagine cars and houses and hopefully not people crunched underneath. Every storm is a gamble, but the don’t come without warning. They build, and it this tension that draws faces towards the sky, and muscles clenched in the unknown. The sky darkens slowly. The clouds have been slowly rolling in all day, but mostly they weren’t storm clouds, just humidity clouds that were as pale as the faded blue sky. Birds scramble towards cover and the cat preens on the deck in the final moments of dryness. I sit on the porch, but know that I will be inside soon. The rain begins. Lightly at first, it slowly dampens the pavement and brings the smell that only rain can bring. The then rain becomes heavier, slowly, mounting like an orchestral crescendo. And more thunder, closer this time. I see people on their porches running for cover, a woman who had been gardening stand up slowly, brushing off her knees as if she had all the time in the world to stay dry. Or maybe she welcomes the cool air that comes with the rain. More thunder and the rain is heavier still. But the storm is only beginning. I move further back on the porch and can only feel occasional drops on my legs that extend to the storm searching for relief from the heat. The rain lightens momentarily, but I know that it is only temporary. The real storm is still miles off. More thunder, closer yet, and aggressive. I wait. Sometimes it takes longer than I expect for the storm to blow in full force and angry. I can feel the sky opening up, relieving itself of all the tension that has been mounting. The first of the lightening flashes, a quick streak across the sky. And then the rain tumbles down with strength. It is roaring now. The last of the people run for cover, realizing the seriousness now. This storm isn’t messing around; it is crashing towards us with an iron fist shaking at the earth. The breeze picks up and cools my forehead and ankles. Raindrops fall heavily from the roof and splatter voraciously, pooling and spreading. Cars drive slower, headlights come on and wipers pick up speed. But the center of the storm is still a ways off. And I just wait, knowing it will come, but not in any hurry for it. You can’t hurry a storm; it just doesn’t work that way. A storm is far beyond my control, and I just let it happen to me, like a breath, mounting then calming.

One Page #42

Bob scoured the parking lot. It was long abandoned and weeds had grown through the cracks. The lot was surrounded by a chain link fence that had been cut and stretched and climbed over hundreds of times. Bob remembered when the space was the parking lot for the neighborhood grocery, which was also abandoned now. Nothing had replaced the grocery and the windows were broken and the walls were covered in graffiti. The floors were beaten down, littered with butts and bottles and even a small pile of syringes in the corner. Bob had only looked in the window, but not gone inside. He had been away too long, and fear that he hadn’t know before had crept into his chest, warning him to stay away. But the parking lot held personal interest, and so he climbed through a hole in the fence and wandered around, toeing the broken pavement to see what was underneath and admiring the purple chicory that grew heedless of its rundown surroundings. It brought a colorful cheer to the lot that was otherwise grayed and left behind even by the neighborhood gangs. Bob heard a shot far off, and he shuddered. He fingered his pocket, but found nothing but lint and an few coins. His right hand still felt trigger-happy and he remembered. He remembered too much. An image of Carol shot through his mind and he blinked away the sadness and nostalgia. He walked with renewed purpose to the other side of the lot where an oak tree hung over, bedraggled and ignored. Around the far side of the tree, the side right next to the fence where even a few links dug into its bark as the tree grew, he pushed aside leaves and dead branches until he found what he was looking for. He fingered the heart carved into the tree bark, still visible like an old scar. Inside the heart’s outline he could still barely make out the B+C that he had carved so carefully, so long ago. Carol had stood by watching, smiling, bemused. They had always made fun of couples who had carved their initials to be remembered forever, like sweethearts who would never grow apart. They were already growing apart, and the carving was a symbol of this separation. Carol was going to live with her aunt upstate. No reason was given to Bob. He didn’t ask. But he would remember. And he hoped that she would also, even though he was beginning to doubt that. He would find his way out of this city too, somehow. He wasn’t sure how just yet. Another gunshot rang out, closer this time, and it woke Bob up from the past. He traced his finger once more around the heart, smiled faintly, and walked back toward the hole he had entered through. He would not come back here again. He had grown soft in his small town life. He no longer needed the past.

One Page #41

When Jerry came in with a plate of cookies and set them on the kitchen table he didn’t expect the dogs to go after them. But they did and when he returned to the kitchen a few minutes later after visiting his mother who was permanently in bed he found the plate licked clean and shining with saliva. The dogs were by the door now, panting to go out, no doubt infected with a sugar rush. Jerry silently cursed under his breath and slammed open the door. The dogs raced out and ran around to the back yard. He brought the plate to the sink and washed it thoroughly. Cookies were his specialty and his mother’s favorite. She hadn’t been able to get up since her unfortunate surgery that rendered her immobile. Since then she hadn’t smiled and her eyes had gone flat. Jerry tried desperately to revive her spirits, but she had gone completely cold. The blood still pumped through her veins, but it was all useless now. And now even the cookies were gone. He would have to go home to make a new batch. He remembered that he needed brown sugar and more chocolate chips. The dogs were back at the door, wanting to be let in and given attention no doubt. He sullenly opened the door and they bounced around, licking his knees. He didn’t move but stood looking out the door at the cars that passed slowly outside. The day was turned gray, and now his mood had taken a severe turn for the worse. He was slowly giving up on brightening his mother’s outlook. He had tried for almost four months, but nothing registered anymore. She ate and slept and seemingly listened to him when he told her stories about his day at the factory, but she didn’t look at him any longer, and her face never moved a muscle. He took the phone off the hook and dialed his sister. They were in regular contact now, even though they hadn’t been for years until recently. They wrote Christmas cards, and sometimes birthday cards, but rarely more than that, even though they lived only a half hour away from each other. Now they spoke almost every day or so. Their mother lived just around the corner from Jerry, so he was there far more often than his sister, and he called to update her. He usually had little to say. When his sister picked up and listened to the update, he silently prayed that she would agree with his proposition. He thought she would, but wasn’t sure. It was risky even mentioning. But it would help them all, their mother included, in the long run. He mentioned it nervously, his voice shaking. There was a pause and Jerry held his breath. But she agreed. The following week Jerry bought flowers and a shovel. It was unofficial, but finalized. He would plant cornflowers over her grave, they were her favorite.

One Page #40

The volume wasn’t the problem. It was the gaping hole between her teeth that was the problem. And that I couldn’t shy away from. She smiled and a photograph clicked in my memory and even today, years later, I think about that gap that was the shape of a highway disappearing over the horizon. I think that if I started walking down that road I would never find myself again. Her eyes shone and her cheeks blushed, but it was the gap, almost a ravine falling away into an abyss, which was the sole focus no matter how hard I tried to stray away from it. It was deep and dark in there, and I wondered what kind of ghosts, monsters, gods as captivating as Medusa laid waiting. There was gravel shifting beneath my feet and I thought about grabbing a handful and shoving it into her mouth, breaking her teeth and reforming the gap, widening the highway, and crushing her devilish smile. But I stood motionless. She talked on and I watched, not listened. Her words were nothing more than a whisper in my ears. I found myself leaning closer. She may have noticed because the volume of her voice got louder. She articulated more clearly; looked at me more closely. But I didn’t notice. My eyes were transfixed and it was as if my whole body was shaped just to watch the black hole. I felt it reaching out for me. Its fingers were liquid and enticing. It had me by the neck, and reached for my own partially opened mouth. It crawled beyond my lips and onto my tongue and then slivered down my throat. It had me by a firm hold, but from the inside as if it knew that it could conquer me starting in my inner orifices and working outward toward my skin and my hair and my toenails. I didn’t move. My eyes got wider. She looked at me and looked away, as if embarrassed. I didn’t know why she was embarrassed. She handled me like a puppet, my nerves twitching as if each were attached to a string that she plucked. She paused in her monologue, and closed her mouth. The reaching fingers lets go and disappear back through her closed lips and the strings were snipped and released. I blinked again and looked into her eyes. I noticed that they were a pale blue and reflected my face so cautiously timid. When she raised her eyebrows, it was my turn to be embarrassed. I looked down at the gravel and it blinked in the sun. I shifted my weight and the gravel shifted beneath me and the sound of it crunching startled me. Sound cascaded into my ears as if I hadn’t heard anything in a long time and my ears had forgotten how to listen. When I looked up I saw her walking away. I knew I would never see that highway stretching out before me again. My throat felt empty, lacking, lonely.

One Page #39

I never knew where I was with her. I looked into her eyes and saw an emptiness covered by desperation. Even when they were radiating happiness. I still never knew. Her bangs fell over her eyes and nearly touched her cheeks that bloomed out in the summer heat, flushed and freckled. The corners of her lips curved into a smile that was almost mocking. She told me once that she was determined not to get frown lines so she drew her mouth into this awkward smile, even when she didn’t want to be smiling. You could tell because her eyes were blank, flat, unless she was really smiling and then they shone with an amused twinkle. She was hard to read. I finally gave up trying to understand. Usually the tone of her voice was the only hint. And even then her smooth soft voice didn’t fluctuate too much. But she squeezed my hand and goose bumps would jump up on her arm, sending the small blonde hairs erect. Then I knew she was happy. And I was happy. And I squeezed back. Out on the pier we escaped her mother’s watching eyes. Always watching. Looking. She didn’t scold or offer opinions. She just looked. It made us both nervous, especially me since I wasn’t quite used to it yet. I hoped I would get used to it though. If this lasted. And I thought it might. But with a girl who is hard to read, you never really know. I was always questioning myself. And that was exhausting. When the moon rose and the stars came out and they reflected on the waves that rolled in without ceasing and the pier emptied when everyone went home, we sat on the end with our legs over the edge and felt the chill settle in. I would let go of her hand and put my arm around her shoulders to keep her warm. She would nestle in. I couldn’t see her eyes then, and could only read her by how much she relaxed and let herself fall into me. Otherwise, I had no idea. But that was ok right then. I figured that she would be off with her other friends if she didn’t want to be there with me. And so I relaxed to and let me head fall lightly onto hers and we watched the swells and an occasional gull fly by, diving for fish, or looking for a place to rest. We heard the sea lions as they barked out to sea, calling to the horizon. The sharp smell of fish caught in my nose and I sighed. Another day had passed, so quickly that I hardly remembered what had happened. Next week I would go home, the car packed, and my brothers squashed into the backseat, my crossword puzzle book on the lap. But I would be staring out the window, pen poised. The ocean would fall away, and her eyes would fall away, and once again I would return. With her body held close I leaned over and saw our reflection in the water far below.

One Page #38

So much of life was stillness just then. And it was unsettling. When everything stops you wonder whether you have stopped too, and ceased to exist for a moment, however brief. And then with a bang everything floods back in, exacerbating the lost moment of calm. Whether or not you enjoy the stillness while life is on pause, you will mostly certainly enjoy it once you are scrambling to keep up. The rope was still swinging back and forth in the breeze. No one had taken it completely down, just cut the loop on the end. While I watched it swinging everything else was still. The air held me upright and I was lulled into the slow motion of the frayed rope. I wondered how he had reached the rafter to fasten the end. It was so high up. When the breeze stopped the roped stopped moving and everything fell into motion again. Sirens screamed toward the house and I looked to the woods in desperation, hoping they would reach out and swallow me whole. Instead I would be identifying and signing and releasing. The rope twitched. I felt as if I were being pushed from behind by a forceful wave. The van drove away with lights blinking. A few cars followed. I stood on the front walk and watched. Silence. My hands shook, and if I hadn’t been standing I guessed my feet would be shaking too. Inside, I put on a black shirt and re-outlined my eyes in black. The stillness returned. The house was quiet after so much commotion. I wondered how long it would last, days, perhaps weeks. I wasn’t sure I could handle that. I threw my fist into the wall to test whether the bang would shake the stillness. It didn’t. Instead my knuckles hurt. I lay down on the couch and fell into the stillness. I released myself to the stillness. I gave in and it felt so good. The stillness was a power far beyond my own, and it reminded me of how small I was. I felt like I was being carried, but I didn’t know where to. I hoped that wherever I was headed would provide me with a moment of peace. A moment of letting go. I gently rubbed my knuckles and listened to the occasional car roll by outside, slowly as if already in the funeral procession. I thought about my car with the flag on the antennae. I thought about the flowers in tall vases and the carpet that softens our footsteps into a collective hush. I thought about the reflection on the casket that shone under the gentle but florescent lights, and the fingerprints that would grapple with understanding, desperately clawing for an answer, quietly overlapping each other and further confusing the swirled prints. I closed my eyes. I wondered if the rope still swung back and forth or whether it was still now. I would cut it down tomorrow. Until then it would be a reminder.

One Page #37

In the event of an emergency please extinguish the cat and save the photographs. All else can go. In fact, it would be a relief. There is too much around here, I trip and fall my way down the hall and it is dark so I can’t see where I am going. There is so much stuff around here, but no light bulbs to replace the one that burnt out and so I keep on tripping each time I go up and down the hallway. The rooms are mostly blocked off now. Doors have been closed as if they can be denied their existence because no one can see in. But the sky can see in, and the trees and the sun, so the rooms must still exist somehow. Just not in our consciousness. The photographs are in a box right next to the back door. It is as if we are all expecting the house to spontaneously combust, and we want to be prepared. And we are prepared. We nearly have our suitcases packed and ready to go. Our hands instinctively reaching for the handles, prepared to grab and run. But so far we are at ten sunny days and not a hint of flame. Even wavering cigarette butts and random acts of lighters flickering don’t send this house to its rightful position of ash and charred wood and melted windows. It is no use. It seems indestructible and we are wildly disappointed. The air is too clean and we long for plumes of smoke, rising and tumbling out over the river and into the city where people would look out their windows and wonder what was happening upstream and whether everyone was all right. But they would turn back to their newspapers or their quiet dinners, and would never find out aside from a possible mention in the city papers the next day. But it would be so small, just a sentence, and so easy to miss. Most people would. The cat was white and he shed everywhere, especially on my black shirts. He seemed to mostly ignore me until I was wearing black, which was often, and then he would follow me begging for attention and pressing his nose deeply into my thigh so hard he would nock my legs over and I would nearly fall off the bed where I was lying, scheming, and hoping for rain. Lightening would do. Lightening starts fires. I instinctively looked to the sky as if my thinking about lightening would make it appear in a glorious thunderstorm headed directly for our house alone. But the sky was blue and fading to black as evening approached. I could already imagine its sparkling starlit deepness with not a cloud to shroud the moon. I glowered and turned back to my book. I had almost been dozing off, but was trying to catch myself. I flicked cigarette ash to the floor and a moment later looked over the edge of the bed to see if small flames were lapping. They weren’t. I read on. The night grew darker, clearer.

One Page #36

In the cool blue October dusk, not a cloud passed overhead. The air was still and the leaves lay settled in their places on the tree limbs. The grass stood tall but quietly. Three friends walked down the gravel road toward home. They had been at the beach all day surfing the waves and collecting mussel shells at low tide. They had waved at the passing lobster boats and followed the small airplanes in their course across the horizon. As the light dimmed the air grew cooler and they headed for their warm kitchens thinking about stews and apple pies with vanilla ice cream. Their stomachs growled softly as they walked along in silence. A breeze came up and rustled the leaves that lined the avenue, and the grasses that stood tall, and the hair on their heads blowing it gently away from their faces that shone from many hours in the sun. Their eyes still sparkled from the exertion of running up the sand dunes with their arms laden with towels and picnic blankets. Into town the two of the friends walked in opposite directions towards home while the third went straight on down the main street towards her home on the other side of town. She passed the post office and the library and the grocery store still filled with people gathering ingredients for dinner. The light deepened suddenly and lights flickered on in the stores and the houses. Her house lay at the end of the main street and the front door was open, inviting the cooling breeze and welcoming her home. Inside her brothers crashed about, excited with a day of successful fishing. Her mother and father chopped vegetables and she could smell haddock baking in the oven with lemon and breadcrumbs. She was suddenly hungry, but overwhelmed by all the noise from her family after so many hours on the beach with only the crashing waves and her friends’ quiet laughter interrupting the silence. Her body was tired from swimming and her bag felt heavy on her shoulder. She went upstairs and left her bag by the door. She moved toward the window and looked out over the sand dunes to the ocean beyond. She saw the lighthouse blinking rhythmically and heard the fog horn start up. Rain was moving in. she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and curled up on her bed, quietly content with a long day in the sun. her eyes closed with a sudden heaviness and she fell into a deep sleep littered with dreams of white surf and crabs that were ten feet tall who carried her lightly over the sand on their backs. A woman in yellow rubber coveralls drove by on her fishing boat, delighted to see her riding so high up on the hard shell. They waved to one another. The sunrays licked her cheek and the crabs cackled with jokes only they could understand.

One Page #35

Perhaps she was heartened by the greeting card left in her mailbox with no stamp informing her that it had been hand delivered while she had been in town. It was odd knowing that someone had come to her house while she was away. While she was buying zucchini or looking at the most recent cooking magazines, someone had come by and opened her mailbox leaving her a note. She fingered the creamy white envelope and admired the calligraphy spelling out her name. Someone had been thinking about her earlier and had drawn out each letter of her name. She might have been taking a shower or cutting strawberries over her cereal while someone was licking the tacky glue on the edge of the seal, securing a letter inside. She had been oblivious to this entire process while she went about her daily chores. The kitchen still needed to be mopped and her books needed dusting. But that could wait a moment. Her groceries were heavy on her arm so she took them and the letter to her front porch. The groceries waited on the front steps while she carefully unsealed the envelope and pulled out a matching creamy paper folded twice. She unfolded it and found the same cursive handwriting inside. The writing was brief. She had been invited to dinner the following evening. Her neighbor, Gracie, had a garden overflowing with vegetables and was inviting the block to her house for dinner in an attempt to free her kitchen counters from the overwhelming amount of tomatoes and squash and basil. She was heartened by this invitation. But a small and private part of her was disappointed as well. The cursive was so sensually inviting and reminded her of cherry pie in late summer. She thought maybe, just maybe. But no, not today. Dinner would be delightful and she would share a bountiful meal with her neighbors who were often too busy to get together with one another. She looked up at the sky and saw that it was darkening in preparation for a storm. The air was thick and she figured she should pick some of her own tomatoes before the rain came. She brought the groceries inside and laid the May Sarton novel that had been in her pocket on the kitchen table. Back outside she was attacked by mosquitoes that were attracted by the sweat on her brow. She went to feed her sheep, one black and one white, and moved them into the barn for the storm. They bleated at her and nosed into her pockets in hopes that she had brought them a treat. She had, of course. It started to rain. The tomatoes were still hanging on the vine as the drops fell with attacking force on her garden. She followed her sheep into the barn and stayed there for the storm, stroking their dirty wool, so thick.