imagist poems

Inked

Skin changed forever

By a shock of color.

A painful commitment to

One moment

In a lifetime.

No color stays vibrant

On an ever-changing background

Of ivory, or olive, or mahogany.

All the edges will blur into

A self-inflicted,

Multi-colored

Bruise.

Love Letters

The smooth pane of parchment

Under anticipatory fingers.

The place you pressed your pen

To shape my name

And location.

A finger slips beneath the flap

Separating adhesive

Granting access

To pages and pages

Of your thoughts

Crossed miles to meet me.

I read and realize

Again and again—

Truly yours.

P.S.

I love you.

Lashes

Like lace

They rest

Above the peach swell

Of your cheek—

Brown lace

Fluttering with your thoughts.

One falls loose . . .

Make a wish.

Shame Us

We were alike in so many ways it was difficult not to love him as I loved myself. He was a hugger, above all. He would climb into my lap and place his little paws on either side of my neck before resting his chin on my collar bone. Sometimes, if I'd just eaten, he would keep his face level with mine, savoring the scent of my breath. As I inhaled his breath, I couldn't help smiling at the closeness of our inter-species relationship. His tan fur was a shade no different than my own tawny hair. Our green eyes were practically the same hue. If my husband found these similarities unnerving he never mentioned it. He seemed pleased I had someone to keep me company, because he knew I wasn't about to form a relationship with any of the neighbors.

The cat's name was Mike—never Michael. People often raised an eyebrow when I revealed my feline had a human name, but I had dubbed him such for a my own reasons. What I couldn't describe was the reason it had to be Mike and never Michael. I supposed it was like those people who hated receiving nicknames. “Hi, my name is William.” “It's good to meet you, Bill.” “It's William,” William might correct. It was like that.

Mike had come from a farm. I had chased him down one late-December afternoon for the benefit of my high school aged children. Christmas was upon us and I planned to surprise them good. There had been a litter of six kittens and as soon as the barn doors opened, they scattered. Mike proved to be relatively easy to catch, but he was difficult the whole drive home, clawing and crying and outright refusing to be transported into the city. As soon as I got him inside the house, he calmed. I hid him in our master bathroom for two nights. My husband tried feeding him the fancy wet stuff, but we soon discovered Mike would only eat dry food from my hand.

On Christmas morning, the children—it seemed silly to call them that, they were already so adult—came down the stairs bleary-eyed and angsty as ever, despite it being the day. They breezed past the presents under the tree and stumbled into the kitchen. I recall my daughter pouring a cup of coffee and mumbling about a strange smell.

“You didn't get us a gerbil, did you?” she asked, nose wrinkled with disdain.

My son muttered disapprovingly and hung his head until it reached the granite counter top. Concerned he'd fall asleep and stay in that position, I shook him by the shoulder and invited him into the living room. He was my favorite; he would open the box that held the newest member of the family. To my great dismay, my son shared my daughter's enthusiasm for the kitten: none. He put on a fake smile and thanked us before asking who would take care of the litter box. My husband squeezed my hand and I pasted on a matching fake smile as I handed my son a new Wii game he'd requested.

It turned out Mike was remarkably intelligent. He used a litter box that first winter, but as soon as the weather improved, we worked together and he was soon trained to wait at the door when he needed to go out. I awarded him with the occasional catnip mouse or jingle ball. It wasn't long before I'd formed a relationship with the cat every bit as strong as the relationship I was slowly losing with the kids. In a couple years my daughter moved out, and my son was gone so often it felt like it was just me, my husband, and Mike.

As the family shrunk, my husband made the executive decision that we would downsize our home, too. I argued that the kids would soon have kids of their own and they'd want to visit. My husband said we could consider that when the time came, but in the meantime he didn't want to pay taxes and utilities on empty space. I hugged Mike to my chest and conceded to relocate. We moved to the suburbs, a development with smaller, cookie-cutter houses geared towards retirees. The only benefit of the new location was that Mike could spend more time outside, since the traffic was low. I would sit in the bay window and watch him track squirrels while I read or did Sudoku puzzles and waited endlessly for my kids to call.

My issues with the outside world were present, though minimal, before the relocation. It wasn't until we met the McAllisters and neighbors like them that I really began my journey towards a hermit's life. They were loud, inconsiderate people. The parties on their back patio lasted until the early morning hours. They drove their Lexus Coupe so fast down the street my breath sometimes caught as I realized Mike was out there somewhere. I had visions of him being squashed by their carelessness. In addition to the behavior of the McAllister humans, they had a loud, inconsiderate cat they called Shamus. It irritated me to no end that they chose a Scottish name, but did not remain true to the Scottish spelling. While this wasn't cause to hate him, per se, he was a fat behemoth with black and white spots that made him look more like a small cow than a feline. Worst of all, Shamus was a bully, and when he looked at precious little Mike he saw a plaything. I couldn't count the times Mike came in in the evening with new wounds, scratches on his face, even a bite in his ear. My husband wouldn't say it out loud, but I was sure he found it ridiculous when I tended the sores with tears in my eyes. I would wrap Mike in my shaking arms and retreat to the small bedroom that I had dedicated to the cat.

“What if the kids come to visit?” my husband had asked, the roles reversed in that moment. “We have a queen size bed being occupied by a nine pound cat.”

I tilted my nose toward the ceiling. “I can change the sheets if the kids decide to stay the night.”

After those attacks, I would curl up behind Mike and sleep with him tight in my arms. He didn't like to be stroked for long periods of time, but if I was snuggling him close he would be content for hours. Best of all, if anyone else paid him such attention, he would acquiesce. He wasn't one of those hoity-toity cats with preference and prejudice. I loved him all the more for that.

The stronger my relationship with Mike grew, the more I detested Shamus and the McAllisters. They lived two houses away and sometimes at night, as I sat in the bay window, their motion sensor light would flick on. That light illuminated everything, including their nasty cat standing sentinel in my driveway, watching and waiting for Mike to emerge. Refusing to set foot outside I could do no more than smack the window and hope it would startle the vile cat away. I wanted to protect Mike, but my hands were tied by my reluctance to deal with anything outside my front door.

Months passed slowly at the new house. I watched my husband go in and out in the mornings, kissing him goodbye fleetingly, my hands resting firmly around Mike's body curled in my lap. I never knew whose breathing to focus on. I sensed my husband was beginning to grow weary of my relationship with the cat. Maybe he knew that our time together would come to an end before I was ready. Maybe he saw something in Mike that I was just too close to see. I tried not to analyze it. I tried to enjoy the cat as much as ever. I would hoist him to my chest and savor the hugs he offered me. I would slowly feed him pieces of dry cat food. I would tease him with a ribbon when he seemed restless and it was too cold to go outside.

There came a time when I sensed a shift in Mike's behavior. He began to revel in his time outside. I would open the door and timidly cry out his name, but he would only come half the time, then a quarter of the time. I began to worry he had found someone else, someone who enjoyed spending time outside with him; someone who had better cat food. I grew despondent.

One night when Mike was outside playing, I was stirring pasta sauce in the kitchen. My husband arrived from work with a uniquely pleasant air about him. He cast his eyes around the kitchen, and seeing no sign of Mike, wrapped his arms firmly around my waist and kissed the crook of my neck. My skin tingled in a way it hadn't for what felt like years. “What's gotten into you?” I asked with a smile.

He shrugged those broad shoulders. “I am just happy to see you.” He paused, thoughtful. “Or maybe I should say I am happy to see just you.” He sat at the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area and spread out the mail. After flipping lamely through Clipper Magazine, he unfolded a bright orange flier and passed it across the Formica to me. “Check this out.”

I set the sauce spoon carefully beside the stove and turned down the heat. I crossed the small kitchen and looked at the page. There was a photo of the monster, Shamus, perched on an expensive chair looking as mean and deplorable as ever. Above his snapshot were the words LOST CAT. Below was the promise of a REWARD and a number where the McAllisters could be reached with information. I feigned concern, but I knew immediately the cat's disappearance was the cause of Mike's new freedom outdoors. I muttered about it being a shame, but my husband knew I was thrilled.

“Have you seen him?” he asked conversationally.

I shrugged, striving to hide the smile that I could feel shining behind my eyes. “Not in a few weeks, actually. What about you?”

“Not since I chased him away for tearing up my begonias. That had to be months ago.” He paused and watched as I returned to the stove. “Hope he turns up, for the McAllister's sake.”

He didn't see my lips silently shape the words, Not me.

I became even more concerned with how little time Mike was spending inside. I needed him, and I missed the days when I felt like he needed me. One morning, after staying awake all night waiting to hear his scratching at the back door, I decided to bite the bullet and go out to find him. It took me at least an hour to locate a pair of shoes I could wear outside. I hadn't noticed my own reticence to leave the house until it was there in front of me: my trainers tucked away in the back of an upstairs linen closet. Who had noticed my tendency to stay in to such an extent that they removed my shoes from the entryway? I had sat there on the floor outside the closet, holding the shoes to my chest as I would Mike, hardly noticing the tears that rolled down my aging cheeks.

Once I'd regained my composure, I tied the strange shoes over my high arches and wrapped one of my husband's sweaters around my slender shoulders. The empty sleeves hung like broken wings as I stepped off the back porch and into the yard. The autumnal air stung my lungs, the freshness of it surprising me and frightening me as much as it delighted me. It took me another moment to find my bearings in this world that had become so strange, but was at once so painfully familiar. I traipsed carefully around the outside of our house, marveling at the late-season flowers that were still in bloom in my husband's carefully tended gardens. I whispered Mike's name, and when nothing bad happened as a result, I cried it a little louder.

Before too long, I heard a rustle in the bushes and Mike appeared. His tail was flicking behind him, his whiskers long and proud. I scooped him up in my arms and pulled him into my chest. For a while I let him nuzzle against me with his head. He placed his paws on either side of my neck and rested his chin on my shoulder. He mewed quietly into my ear, “I want to show you something.”

Following Mike's directions, or perhaps my own intuition, I walked slowly around the far side of the house. I found a wood pile my husband must have created. Nearby there was a rake and a shovel and a push broom, all resting against the siding of the house. My eyes fell on something through the spokes of the rake. It looked like a matted, moldy blanket with a cow pattern. I racked my memory for that blanket, if it had ever belonged to one of the children. As I stepped closer, however, a strange sensation spread within my chest. I squeezed Mike a little tighter and he meowed again, this time more insistently. He was frightened.

I reached out one arm and moved the rake aside. There, in a heap of fur and long-dried blood, was Shamus the cat. He was lifeless and hollow, his eyes long gone, leaving empty pinkish-black sockets. I tried not to look too closely, but I couldn't help noticing the larvae and flies that had made a buffet of his dog-like face. I stepped back in surprise as all the pieces fell together: Mike's new freedom to explore the outdoors, the McAllister's frantic fliers, my husband's attitude towards everything. I did not want to know who was responsible for the demise of the cat. I would not ask any questions. After placing Mike carefully in his bedroom and closing the door, I returned to where Shamus lay. I used the shovel to scoop up the carcass, which proved to be much lighter than I had anticipated. It had been a dry few weeks. I hoped this would make it easier to pull off my hasty plan. I carried the shovel in through the back door and dropped its contents in the fireplace. I practically ran the shovel back to its original spot, grabbed an armful of the prepared logs, and returned to the hearth. I held my breath as I created an expert fire around the decaying cat. I closed the doors, certain breathing the burning flesh would bring me more harm than Shamus had ever brought Mike. I sat back on the floor and watched the flames engulf the fur, lighting it like kindling and making it black. I watched the funeral pyre with the same confused set of emotions I had felt on discovering the animal. I then decided if I couldn't pin-point my attitude, perhaps Mike could help.

I walked slowly down the short hall and opened his door. Mike jumped primly from the bed and sauntered out of the room. He stalked with purpose to the fireplace and when he arrived at the tile in front of it, he curled up and enjoyed the ambient heat produced by his burning enemy. I watched him intently, hoping he would give me a clue, an indication of how I should think or feel or proceed with the whole situation. He looked at me then, returning the intensity of my gaze. He mewed once and proceeded to give himself a bath.

When my husband arrived home a couple hours later, I was still wearing his sweater and the trainers. Mike was curled in my lap. My eyes were dry. My husband took this in slowly, processing what he was seeing. He took note of the shoes, the sweater, the smoldering logs in the fireplace.

“You went outside,” he observed quietly.

I nodded.

Without a word, my husband moved to the adjacent kitchen and pulled out a drawer beneath the microwave. He shuffled through a small stack of papers before producing a neon orange sheet of paper, folded in thirds. He walked to where I sat, pulled open the door to the fireplace, and placed the paper gently on the depleted logs. There were one or two flames still fighting for survival and they thrived as they swallowed the paper. I watched it shrivel, just as Shamus had. I looked up at my husband with bewilderment in my eyes.

My husband closed the door, dusted his hands, and sat on the floor beside me. He gathered Mike into his lap and I watched adoringly as our cat reached up and placed his paws on either side of my husband's collared shirt. He rested his little chin on my husband's shoulder, his emerald eyes locked on me, a small smile playing on his kitty lips. I smiled and tickled the top of his little head before leaning over and resting my own head beside his on my husband's strong shoulder.

Letter to Love

Love,

I had dismissed you from my life. I didn't want you interfering with my family, with my friends or their friends, and especially not with any handsome men that might cross my path. I hated you so fully. I tried washing you down the shower drain, crying you out on my knees in pain. You were a tough one to get rid of, but I succeeded. For some period of time—a little over a year, as it were—I was free from your grasp. I did whatever I pleased with whomever I pleased. My family was leaving me blessedly alone, my friends didn't come to me for counsel. I looked after me and forgot about you completely.

It was February thirteenth—go figure. I was sitting on that bench minding my own business. Like a threaded needle you slid into me. I barely felt anything; I am used to needles. Slowly, you plotted a course through my veins, finding the most inconspicuous artery and gliding up it, looking for a quiet route to my core. I didn't even notice, but by month two I was yours again. My body had become a cross-stitch. I am a marionette, completely at your will. Here I am six months in and it's only now I can identify that it's you who has been screwing me up again.

I haven't decided to let you stay, but I don't think I'll evict you just yet. It hurts too much to cut all those threads. I bled too much the first time. But let this be a warning, Love. I know exactly what to do to rid you from my life. Either we work together this time, or so help me I'll get the scissors. Just as I am capable of unspeakable things, I know that you are, too. Direct the silver point where I urge you. Wrap his heart in your red thread web, and tighten it in my direction. I'll go through the motions as always I've been. You look after you. I trust you to do what you have to do.

-L

escape

Let's pretend that's all it takes. Let's make believe you can delete yourself from Facebook, turn off your phone, down two shots of cheap rum and a Lortab 10. Existence: gone. Disappear off the face of the earth. At least for a day or two. Let's pretend when the sun rises tomorrow I'll be lying on my back in a field somewhere. He's beside me. Which “he” doesn't really matter—I loved them all in their ways. It's a different world. One free of misunderstanding and confusion. There's no chaos. No disarray. We get along... just me and him. I don't want to be troubled with anyone else. Let's pretend there is such a thing as heaven. When I get there on my cloud of hydrocodone and Captain (or is it Admiral?) Nelson, that's when the rest will come. Eternal relaxation in a field of poppies, his hand clasped with mine. I could watch our knuckles for eternity. I could enjoy the sensation of his thumb sliding over mine forever. We'd lock eyes among the flowers; his blue blue eyes in high contrast to the red-orange of our field. I would wonder if he compared my brown ones to the soil beneath the grass beneath our backs. I wonder if there even is soil. Dirt doesn't seem like something that belongs in our perfect haven. I wonder how he came to be here. I wonder if I'm just imagining him. But then the pressure of his thumb crosses mine again. The heat surges through me and his smile slides on his lips. He's real and tangible and eternal. I don't have to speak a word; I understand. He needed to escape as much as I did. Our time is fleeting. In a day or two more, we'll log in again. We'll make up with our families, our “friends”. We'll feel better, simply because that's what's expected of us. We'll return to reality and no one will really realize we ever left it.

blind

As is the case with most, the earliest memories I can conjure are unpleasant. For some reason the pain stays with us, resonating in our memories every time we reach for them. The person who installed me was rushed and rough, taking no great care for my state of comfort. The large, clumsy fingers rammed screws through my brackets, pinning me to the wood above the window. There was a grinding as he screwed the metal into the wood. There were so many screws. When I'd been successfully mounted, they yanked my cord. For the first month it seemed, I was alone but for the occasional visitor who wanted only to pull my cord. I would collapse, all my slats coming together like a stack, rising above the window so they could peer out. I was beginning to feel like nothing more than an nuisance. I wondered why they wanted me around if they only wanted to see around me. My existence was becoming very bleak until one day some visitors arrived and decided to stay. I watched every move they made. I admired the way they moved, the parts and pieces that made them up. I was so in love with them. And after a few days they began showing me they loved me. At first they would come up to me and stick their fingers between my slats. It tickled and made me squirm. Every time they let my slats fall closed I wanted them to peek out again. Next to the tickling, my favorite was when they'd twist my wand, causing my slats to turn, warming the underside in the sun. I loved turning. To my very great delight there was a little one in the house who enjoyed twisting my wand as much as I did turning. On one or two occasions he want overboard, turning so much it made me dizzy. The worst sensation was often provided by a tiny thing I never did get a good look at. Perhaps the dog or the baby. Sometimes the small thing caught my cord as it dangled to the ground. The pull wasn't consistent, causing one half of my slats to rise while the other side remained down. It caused a sense of vertigo to permeate my existence. The sense of spilling would come over me, gripping me with anxiety. My own discomfort was the root of the problem they usually had righting me after such an incident. I shudder with the memory. The visitors were good to me. Gently they pulled my cord to raise and lower my slats. Frequently they ran a soft, smooth duster over me, brushing off the itchy dust particles that accumulated on my surfaces. When they used my door, they were careful not to slam it. Despite all their care, I could feel my screws coming loose over time. The wood was straining to hold them, and they were straining to hold me. We spent months fighting the battle against gravity, until one day the visitors had a visitor. He was huge. His shadow in the doorway when he arrived made my purpose null and void. In tow, he had a great big dog. Its head came up past the door knob. I knew if he stood, he'd maul me with those dangerous and clumsy paws. I'd seen it happen to the couch. Things were fine. They seemed to enjoy having the big man around. One day, he got the children so excited for an outing, they ran one-by-one out the door, each pull and sway putting indescribable pressure on me and those screws. When everyone was out, the big man patted his monstrously large dog and exited through my door. His enormous arm pulled a little too hard, causing my door to hit the jamb with a little too much force. The screws made a terrible grinding sound and gave out. In a flash of light and noise, I clattered to the floor. A commotion of dust swirled around. I hadn't realized it'd been so long since last I felt the caress of the duster. I felt so embarrassed, so disappointed to have fallen from my position above the window. Too much light was coming in. They'd be so upset with me when they returned. Then, as if to add injury to insult, that great big dog sauntered over to see what all the noise had been about. The clumsy creature took no care of where he stepped. He crunched two of my slats beneath his heavy paw. The sound of a snap and a crinkle rang out through the entryway. The dog's ears perked, and I saw the faces of every man, woman, and child that had ever come through this room. I remembered every hand--delicate, pudgy, sweaty, calloused--that had wrapped around my cord. They all pulled differently. But none of it mattered now, because the beast liked the sound of my slats cracking and bending. In a matter of seconds he was all over me. His front paws pushed while his back paws pulled. I felt some slats break in two. Some were torn at the eyelet, rendering my strings useless for raising and lowering them. I was being brutally destroyed, and no one was around to save me. The dog tired after what felt like hours. For some time it would attack, then leave, then return to destroy me some more. By the time it disappeared for good, I was in a dozen pieces. The sun had set, the room was dark. I worried they wouldn't find me until morning when they needed me again. I was so scared and so alone, broken on the floor. And then I was being lifted into the air. Two careful hands had gathered all my parts. I was being moved out of the house, away from the beast. That was good enough for me. I was carried into the garage and placed in a heap on the table. After some time, everyone else returned. Within the house the big dog was scolded. I took no satisfaction in this, because throughout all the shouting and speaking, two words kept standing out to me. Wood blinds. Wood blinds. "I've been thinking of putting in wood blinds for a while." I thought of my window. It would be so bare without me. I remembered the tickling fingers, how amazing they felt. I hated that stupid animal for ruining me. I hoped they'd kick the big man out. As it was, the big man took responsibility of making things right. He spent a great deal of time in the garage, working with super glue and vices and Creedence Clearwater Revival. He had very nimble fingers for his size. I observed patiently as he put me back together. When his work was finished, I felt different. Incomplete. I knew how I looked. I knew I didn't belong on the door anymore. In fact, when the time eventually came for the big man to leave, he tucked me beneath his great big arm and carried me out the door I had always belonged to. I looked up at my window. Sure enough, it was adorned with a beautiful set of white wood blinds. The slats were so thick, so sturdy. So white. The pull string was convenient and short, never to drag on the ground. Its ends were capped with white porcelain teardrops. They were the finest window coverings I had ever witnessed. I envied them with every fiber of my being. The big man placed me in the trunk of his car. He slammed the lid, enclosing me in blackness. There I stayed for days. He never once opened the trunk. He didn't expand my slats or turn them. He didn't tug my string. I felt neglected and unwanted. I considered jamming up forever, tying a knot just beneath my gears so they could never open me again. I realized how irrational I was being, and reminded myself they'd take me out eventually. I thought endlessly of the big man. He hadn't put me back together just so he could keep me in his trunk. I endured the darkness. One magnificent autumn day, the trunk lid swung open. The big man rifled around a bit, moving things, pulling some items into his arms. He didn't even glance at me. He was just about to close the lid again when a bright red leaf swirled past his ear and fell into the open trunk. It landed gracefully on my slats, and I hoped he'd remember why he ever fixed me in the first place. His fingers touched first the leaf, plucking it from me and discarding it outside the vehicle. Then his hand wrapped around me. He lifted me from the trunk and slammed it closed. He carried me--along with the other items--into a building. On every window was a set of blinds that looked just like me! Some were up, some down. People wre all around, some peering between slats. My hopes soared. The big man carried me into a separate room. Everything was white. in the middle of the room was a metal bed, a thin white mattress under a thin white sheet. I didn't have much time to look around. In moments the big man was holding me above the window. He was very careful as he inserted fresh screws into my brackets. He turned them gently, deliberately, as if taking care not to hurt them. When they were all securely in place, the man stepped back. he smiled at me and carefully lowered and raised my slats. It felt so good, like stretching. I was immediately grateful I'd endured the trunk. The big man left. Visitors came and went. I hung around for good news and terrible. I hung around witnessing birth and death. I saw the entire spectrum of human emotion. In a way, I lived. Through it all, I've never stopped getting tickled by peering fingers, turned in the sunlight, and caressed by the delicate surface of the janitor's duster. And for all the years I've hung here, I've never had to deal with another dog.

un-expectations

“Janine, please stop. People are going to think I’m a monster.” I placed my hand gently on the back of her elbow. She was shaking. “We can figure this one out. There’s nothing to worry about.”
She brought her shining eyes up to meet mine. They were rimmed red and still infinitely beautiful. I felt my emotions catch in my own throat and I wondered if I really believed the words I was whispering to my girlfriend of 14 months. I wanted to believe it was the truth—that we could find a simple solution.
We were standing in front of a convenience store somewhere in Nebraska, en route to Janine’s parents’ house in Cleveland, Ohio. We were almost exactly 1,000 miles east of my family, and 1,000 miles west of hers. And wouldn’t you know it? Janine was going to be a mom. The news—only just acquired from a pregnancy test both purchased and used in the gas station—hadn’t quite sunk in for me. All I wanted to do was get back behind the wheel of my Jeep Compass and get on the road again. I was done with Nebraska only moments after we’d entered it. I hated the god-forsaken state, as nothing good ever happened in Nebraska.
“I can’t stop,” Janine managed. She then buried her mouth and nose in the soggy tissue she was clutching, and continued to weep. I sighed and cast my eyes to the horizon.
The sky was pale and expansive. I had known when I awoke that morning in our Salt Lake City hotel that it was going to be beautiful weather. I had known as soon as Janine exited the hotel bathroom with no color in her face and a sour scent on her breath that the weather would be the last pleasant thing in my life for a while. We had only put 30 miles between us and the hotel when Janine demanded we stop and buy a pregnancy test. And those are the events that brought us here: me gazing at the line where light meets land, Janine falling to pieces beside me. I wrapped one arm around her and kissed the crown of her head. “It’s all okay,” I assured us both. “Let’s get in the car and we’ll be to your mom’s house before you know it.”
With some effort, I coaxed Janine into the passenger seat and helped her fasten her seatbelt. I kissed her twice, asking if she was alright and getting nothing more than a sad shrug of her shoulders. Reluctantly, I closed her door and walked around to my side of the car. Before I even reached for the handle, I heard someone call me from the direction of the fuel pumps.
“Hey. Is she going to be alright? I couldn’t help noticing . . .” the man trailed off, making it sound like he was unsure what it was he had noticed. He was in the process of cleaning his windows, and he held the squeegee lifelessly in his left hand while he addressed me. I glanced at Janine through the window. She wasn’t looking at me, but I held one finger up anyway, to let her know I’d be a minute.
I crossed the parking lot to where the stranger stood beside his town car. The grill was smattered with bugs, but the windshield gleamed in the mid-morning light. “She’s pregnant,” I blurted without ado. “She’s freaking out.” I shot the stranger a helpless expression, hoping that somehow I could convince him I would be receptive to any advice he could offer me.
The man had close-set eyes and poufy grey hair. He was reminiscent of Will Farrell, add fifteen or twenty years. I hoped he was as good-natured as the comedian seemed in all his films, of which I’d always been a fan. The man smiled, his lips closed in an attempt to hide a snaggle-tooth in the top row. “We’ve all been there, my friend,” he said warmly. “My advice to you is to make an honest woman of her.” Before I could protest, or even offer a response to his suggestion, he added, “That’s what I did, and I have been a happy man all my life.”
He nodded towards the front of the convenience store, and I saw a beautiful middle-aged woman. She was holding hands with a boy who looked about seven years old. They were each licking at a freshly-made soft-serve ice cream cone and they were smiling and talking quietly. They looked both ways before crossing the parking area and arriving at the car where I stood with the missing piece of their perfect little family. I nodded at the woman, who smiled in return and proceeded to help fasten the child in the back seat, which was littered with toys and coloring books.
“Well, thank you for the advice, sir,” I offered the man my hand and he shook it. “You have a safe drive.”
The man smiled and gestured to my car across the way. “I trust you’ll do right by her,” the man offered with an encouraging nod before returning the squeegee to the bucket full of bug-ridden window washing fluid.
I strolled back to my Jeep, feeling just a little less burdened than I had before. I pulled open the driver’s door to find Janine had lowered the back of her seat and was dozing peacefully. Her head tilted to the right so I couldn’t see her features, only the pane of her cheek and the delicately exposed flesh behind her ear and the side of her neck. There was a pale, wiry vein curving behind her ear, punctured as it was with a vacant earring hole. I was so tempted to reach across the space between us and caress her sleeping form. I resisted, and slid silently behind the wheel. I turned the engine and Janine tipped her head the other way. The disturbance caused her to open her eyes. She looked at me with such depth and sincerity, my breath caught.
“I love you,” she breathed before letting her eyes fall closed again. As I pushed the car into Drive, I couldn’t hide the smile that spread like wildfire across my tinted face. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I touched the horn to draw the attention of the grey-haired man. He looked up at me through his windshield and offered me a warm smile. I decided that whatever happened on the other end of our 1,000-mile journey, I would do right by Janine.
That day we drove for thirteen hours and stopped for the night in a tiny town just shy of the Indiana border. Once when I was a child, I had camped with my family somewhere in Montana at a Kampgrounds of America. It had been one of the best overnight activities of my youth, and ever since Janine and I embarked on our trip, I had been hoping to take her to a KOA. She was not in on the surprise, however. As we pulled off the highway her spidey senses began tingling. She sat taller in her chair and muttered something about not having seen a hotel sign.
“I have a surprise for you,” I said with the same unabashed excitement with which men had been using to present the line for hundreds of years. I braced myself for Janine’s less-than-enthusiastic response.
“Jake,” she breathed, the syllable dripping with disapproving discomfort. “I am not sleeping at a KOA. I am with child.”
I tried not to grind my teeth too hard. She noticed when my jaw was tense. “Pretend it is fourteen hours ago and you have no idea what’s going on inside your body.”
“I know what goes on in my body, Jake,” she said with weak defensiveness. “I knew what was going on,” she whispered while one hand slipped subconsciously across her stomach.
As much as I needed the scents of fresh air, campfire smoke, Off! Mosquito Repellant—I let the KOA issue drop. I told her it was only 20 miles to a Hilton and she relaxed against the leather back of the front seat. I watched her for a moment, studying the way she melted against the material. I wanted to be that plush car seat more in that moment than I ever thought possible. I wanted to be her reason to exhale. I wanted to be there when she landed.
It took all my effort, but we managed to drive through to the Hilton I had promised. Janine was so exhausted, she climbed in the bed fully clothed and was asleep before I’d finished bringing our bags up from the car. The trip was turning out nothing like I’d expected a few days before. I had envisioned us getting frisky and falling asleep in a sensuous, naked embrace every night between the fresh, white sheets. I sighed and turned out the lamp light, removing my clothes and carefully crawling into bed beside her. I took notice that she had two pillows under her head, and one pinned between her knees as she slept on her side. My spot was left bare. I considered lying down on my own arm, as I was pretty exhausted as well. But I managed to find the energy to call down to the front desk for an extra pillow. When it arrived, I propped it beneath my own head and slipped in behind my girlfriend. I wrapped my legs beneath hers and draped one arm over her small stomach. I fell asleep lost in visions of a grey-haired version of myself, my gorgeous wife Janine licking at a soft-serve ice cream cone.
Janine was already up and out of the bed when the light spilled through the hotel curtains, dragging me reluctantly out of my sleep. I rolled over and saw her elbow around the edge of the wall that separated the main room from the bathroom area. She was doing her hair, which was a good sign.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” I heard her sweet voice lilt. She sounded infinitely more positive than she had at any point the day before.
“Morning,” I managed, pulling my aching body from beneath the tangled sheets. As always, we had kicked the comforter to the ground during the night. I bent to pick it up, and let out a groan. Driving for long periods of time sometimes got my back to hurting, an ailment I had yet kept from Janine. There were plenty of other things she wasn’t aware of, but as I considered the tiny byproduct of our lust that was growing rapidly inside her, I decided there would be enough time to fill her in.
“You okay?” she asked, tilting at the hips so she could see around the wall. Her eyes were concerned, adorned in makeup as they were.
I waved one hand in a gesture that suggested she not worry about it, and walked the space of the room so I was standing beside her. Her features looked so strange and crooked in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. It caused my heart to jump, the sensation that the woman I had awoken to was someone different than the one I had laid down with the night before. I turned her to look at me, and the emotions I usually felt upon looking at her returned to normal. I kissed her on the mouth, savoring the taste of her toothpaste. Without a word, I ducked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
The water cascaded through my hair, washing it over the back of my neck till it almost brushed my spine. I spat the droplets that had found their way into my mouth as I turned beneath the stream. I could see steam curling above the shower curtain, painting the mirror the color of clouds. The soap was harsh, hard as the water. It left my skin feeling dry and zapped. I missed my own shower, my Old Spice body wash. I turned the handle to the off position and stood within the confines of the porcelain until I was ready to brave the chill of the bathroom beyond the curtain. I pulled it back and was surprised to see Janine sitting on the toilet fully clothed; the lid down.
“Missed me?” I asked as I reached one dripping arm over her shoulder to the stack of towels the hotel staff had left us. I removed a towel, whipped it out, and wrapped it snugly about my slender waist.
“I don’t know how I got any sleep last night, but I did. So I’m well-rested. Is it okay if we start out with me driving today?”
I pretended to mull over the question, weighing the pros and cons of saying “yes” to her sweet, child-like inquiry. “Do you have a clean record?” I jested.
“As clean as your butt,” came her retort. She then stood and wrapped her arms around my exposed shoulders. She smiled up at me, and I took in every aspect of her beautiful face. Her light hair was beginning to frizz in the steam of the bathroom. I knew she hated it, but I thought the halo of fly-aways around her face was endearing. I brushed one out of the way before I kissed her.
“Okay, you can drive.”
Forty minutes later, with our bellies full of continental breakfast and an endless river of road stretching before us, we recommenced our journey. The car rules stated that whoever was driving got control of the stereo, so I sat patiently through several hours of Kate Nash, Regina Spektor, Alanis Morissette, and other female power singers. It was good to see Janine so animated, singing and belting the lyrics she knew so well. She was actually a good singer, and I was mildly surprised to find myself enjoying her vocal accompaniment to the music. For the first time, I found myself wondering about whether our child would be a good singer. The sensation that filled my stomach and limbs was so total and so foreign, I had to hold on to something. My sudden reach for the roll bar did not escape Janine’s notice.
“What is it?” she asked, gripping the steering wheel tighter with her left hand and turning the knob on the radio with her right. The music played quietly in the background while Janine glanced at me over and over, unwilling to take her eyes off the road for too long at a time.
I let my jaw open and close a couple times, unable to find words to capture what I was feeling. It was like the most powerful sensation of love I had ever felt, and I realized that no matter what happened between Janine and me, there would always be a part of our love for one another captured in the existence of the tiny child growing inside her. My mind darted back to the man at the gas station the day before, and I said the first thing that came to my cluttered mind.
“Pull into that rest stop.”
Without any further inquiry, Janine hit the right turn signal and maneuvered into the rest stop that had conveniently come up on our route. She parked the vehicle and turned her attention to me. “What’s wrong, Jake?”
I couldn’t bring my eyes to meet hers. I knew I’d get overwhelmed. “Can we get out of the car?”
At this point we’d made it to the western end of Ohio. The rest stop was situated beside a pleasant man-made lake. I exited the Jeep and walked to the nearest edge of the lake. I hardly noticed the family enjoying a picnic on the far side of the lake. I turned my full attention to Janine, who was standing uncomfortably on the edge of the water beside me. Without a word, I dropped to my knee and took Janine’s nimble hand in my own thick, clumsy ones. I looked up at her, grateful the sun was behind me, causing the light to hit Janine’s beautiful, bright eyes. She knew exactly what I was doing, but she said nothing.
“Janine,” I began, barely able to get through those first syllables. “I want to do right by you. But more importantly, I know that I want to spend my life with you; not only as the father of your child, but as the man who will stand beside you through everything.” I cleared my throat, a weak attempt at brushing away the emotions that were curling up through my stomach like smoke. “Will you be my wife?”
Janine was crying openly. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and cast her eyes to the small family on the other side of the water. I peeled my eyes away from her lovely face, and took in the same sights. The dad was holding a small girl on his lap. The little girl was shrieking with every bounce of her father’s knee. The mother was showing a little boy something very small. Their heads were leaning together conspiratorially. I knew Janine was trying to visualize us in the same roles. I hoped she liked what she saw.
“Thank you,” she said after a pause, “For not doing this in front of my family.” I looked up at her again, just in time to witness the beauty of her face as it split into a radiant smile. I knew her answer. “Of course I’ll marry you, Jake.”
She let me off the hook for not having a ring, and allowed me to purchase her a soda from the vending machine. She even gave me the keys and said her mind was too occupied to keep driving. I took this as a good sign and was grateful to have full control over the stereo. Truth be told, I was so appreciative of my new fiancé, I even left Regina Spektor playing.
We arrived at Janine’s parents’ house around eleven that night. We were both strung out from the road, and irritable to boot. To my great delight, Janine had the kind of parents who could read a person’s emotions. They let me go straight to the basement bedroom they had set up for me. Her dad assured me we’d have a nice, long, getting-to-know-you chat over breakfast. I was so tired, I didn’t even let this daunting bit of news bother me as I prepared for bed.
The house was small, and the bedroom took up half the basement. It was colder than I had prepared for, and I asked Janine if she could bring down an extra blanket. She said she’d have to sneak down past her father’s study door. When I reminded Janine she was twenty-four years old, she reminded me her father was the pastor of his congregation. It would be extremely unfitting for his daughter to spend the night with her boyfriend. Janine hadn’t agreed with her dad’s religious practices since middle school, however, and shortly after midnight I heard her on the stairs.
I watched her toes step delicately from one stair to the next, the shimmering silver toenail polish catching what little light was spilling from the main floor. Her slender ankles came next, and the curve and swell of her calves as they morphed into her flawless knees. She was wearing a tiny pair of shorts, and a form-fitting tank-top beneath a loose sweater. She looked like the epitome of comfort carrying a large quilt.
“Well, hello,” I whispered into the darkness, anticipating her eyes lighting on mine.
Janine looked at me seductively, and my body responded. At that moment her father’s office chair squeaked upstairs and I silently pleaded with my body to cooperate. I managed to relax just as Janine reached the side of the bed. She unfolded the quilt and spread it over the queen-sized mattress on which I laid. Just as she turned to go back upstairs, I stopped her.
“He won’t know if you stay for a couple minutes,” I reasoned.
Janine looked worried, but said nothing. She slipped into the bed beside me, wrapping her legs around mine. She was so warm I thought there might be something wrong. I asked her about it. “My mom keeps it, like, 80 degrees upstairs,” was her casual response. I knew she was tired as I was, but it felt like something was off. I wondered if her parents had given her a talking-to already. Though this didn’t seem likely, I couldn’t get the notion to leave me long enough to sleep comfortably. I tossed and turned and lie awake staring at the ceiling for much of the night. I was so distracted by my thoughts, I didn’t even remember to wake Janine and send her back upstairs before sunrise.
I heard the first sounds of life around eight the following morning. It amazed me how thunderous the footsteps of a hungry teenage brother could sound from below, as he ran down the stairs to join his parents for breakfast. I heard his voice first. “Janine’s not in her room,” he said casually—not accusing, merely stating the fact. At the words, my heart stopped and I looked beside me, where Janine was sleeping as peacefully and gracefully as any of the angels her father preached about. Before I woke her, I heard the tell-tale scooting sound of her father pushing his chair away from the table. There were footsteps, and then, “Janine? Are you down there?”
I shook her shoulder hard, more intent on waking her quickly than doing it delicately. “Janine, get up,” I hissed, praying to a god I didn’t believe in to keep the pastor at the top of the stairs. “Your family is awake,” I tried.
Janine muttered something about time, ignoring my pleading. I knew she didn’t remember where she was, or she’d be as eager to join the living as I was. I shook her shoulder again, aggressively. “Your dad is talking to you.”
These seemed to be the magic words. Janine sat up, her eyes wild and confused. “Where is he?” she asked, at top volume.
“I’m up here, young lady,” came his dark, disturbing response. “You’ve got one minute.”
Janine shot me a horrible look that reminded me it had been my job to wake her, to send her back to her room. She threw off the blankets that had uncharacteristically lasted through the night, and was just about to storm up the stairs when I saw the scene that made my heart stand still. Janine’s shorts were stained, as were the sheets beneath them. The color was vicious and offensive, it reeked of metal. My stomach churned at the realization that it was blood. I leaned over my side of the bed and let out a sticky, putrid stream of vomit.
“What’s going on down there?” was her father’s response to my upheaval. My eyes were watering, my ears ringing, my stomach writhing in upset. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should turn and face my future father-in-law, or if I should recover, be a man, and see to the needs of my fiancé, who would, in a matter of seconds, notice what had happened inside her body during the night. God only knew what kind of response the discovery would merit from Janine.
The steps on the stairs told me the older man was slowly descending. I was through vomiting, having expelled what little matter had remained in my stomach through the night. I turned to Janine, my eyes wild and pleading, despite my best efforts to remain collected. She wasn’t looking at me anymore. Her eyes were glued to the mess all around her. Her mouth was open just a little, the complete horror of the situation not yet registering on her sleepy face. I could feel the tears breaking past the barrier of my eyelids. I felt weak and defenseless.
“What in the hell?” was her father’s enraged response to the scene when he reached the foot of the stairs. Neither one of us heard him as he began to rant. Janine scooted closer to me, and I had no choice but to wrap my arms around her and hold her as we both fell to pieces at the end of the whirlwind ride that made up the past couple of days.
Oblivious to the anger, the sadness, and above all the confusion that was trickling down the stairs and accumulating in the puddle of Janine’s family, I held her while she sobbed. Our shoulders shook with the pain and confusion of what had occurred in the course of three days. At some point we had created a child, learned of its existence, and devastatingly lost it all before we really knew what a miracle we had possessed. I took a deep, stabilizing breath and pulled back from Janine. I placed my clumsy hands on either side of her face, and steadied it. I bore into her eyes with mine, and I whispered with enough passion and intensity to move mountains, “I will always want you. This doesn’t change a thing.” Without a word, I tore the hem of her ruined shorts and fashioned from it a tiny ring. I said nothing as I slid the piece of fabric over her knuckle and let it rest between her middle and pinky fingers. We looked at the ring, and then at each other, and the look we shared solidified the knowledge that no matter what happened down the road, Janine and I would be ready.

bedtime

i let my head roll to the left, then to the right. i breathed in deeply; exhaled slowly. i considered shifting positions, but decided against it. it wasn't worth the noise or the risk of waking my roommate. i closed my eyes tightly, but when your face was all that filled my view, i flicked them open again. i tried making out faces in the ceiling, but it was too dark. i had made sure no modicum of light could disrupt my insatiable desire to just sleep. every night i went through the trouble of shutting down my entire computer and entertainment system, so no blinking monitors or power strips could annoy. on a slow day in shop class i had covered two pieces of cardboard with aluminum foil, and every night i would place them snugly within the borders of my bedroom window. i would run a strip of duct tape around the edges, top, and bottom of my bedroom door, should my roommate come home in the night and flick on the hall light. i was prepared for sleep in every way, but it would never come. i don't know how to explain it any other way than to say you took the night away from me.
in days gone by, i used to be excellent at sleeping. i could fall asleep in under two minutes, and i could remain in the same position for nearly eight hours. my dreams were vivid and colorful. my sleep was always entertaining while restful. my bed and i shared a phenomenal relationship. i had never before let another person in, and i refused to sleep anywhere else. but then you came along.
we'd been dating four months already; i felt it was high time to let you spend the night. i remember i was already under the covers when you exited the bathroom in nothing but a tight cotton camisole and an adorably sexy pair of boyish x-men panties. i pulled back the soft, down comforter. i remembered the way the matress sunk beneath your delicate weight. your smooth legs slid down the length of the two sheets, brushing against the hairs on my legs, causing everything from my toes to my navel to begin tingling. you lulled me to sleep that night with the whispers of your thoughts. they flowed from your sweet, pink lips like spring water; washing my mind with their purity. i slept in the arms of angels that night.
the following night, i didn't even have to ask you to stay. you slid in beneath the sheets behind me and wrapped your slender arms around my chest. i played with your knuckles in the dark of the room, wishing it were light so i could count the fine hairs on each one. i breathed in the scent of your palm and smelled the same soap my mother had always bought when i was a kid. instead of my falice growing, my heart swelled and i wondered if that might be a taste of what it felt like to love.
as time went on, i grew even more in love with you in dreams than i did in the waking hours. that is not to say i didn't love you indelibly in the daylight; it only means the night was an ecstatic and euphoric time for me. i went so far as to invite you to nap beside me. you laughed, but never gave in. your life was too busy for that. i should have known better.
it was two entire years before you grew bored of sleeping with me. or maybe you were bored by some other facet of our relationship. whatever it was that drew you out the door, you followed it and never looked back. ever since that first night when all i could feel was your absence, i haven't been able to sleep. every night since that dreadful one, i have found myself lying flat on my back, begging some unseen gods to help me find relief. all my attempts have been unsuccessful.
i tried to imagine you there with me again, but it was such a vain mockery of my memories of us, i stopped. some nights, when sleep almost caught up to me, i felt the phantom sensation amputees sometimes speak of. my bed would sink on your side, and my leg hairs stood on end. my whole countenance went rigid and i couldn't get the feeling to leave. such sweet torment i felt those nights as i tossed and turned beneath the now-foreign sheets that adorned my sacrificial bed.

from left field

It seemed no matter where she looked, nothing looked the way it was supposed to. Nothing looked how she was used to seeing it. Even the sky was different. It glittered green, it was even paler than the usual sky blue. The clouds were pink. On really stormy days the sky looked like a watermelon, cut open. She thought it was beautiful. Some days she spent hours lying on her back in the bluegrass watching the sky morph and change. When she did go on walks, there was always something new and more intriguing lurking around the corner. One bright Tuesday morning she rounded a turn in the path to discover a walking, talking palm tree. Its leaves were a brilliant blood red and they shimmered in the early sun. The palm tree smiled at the girl. The girl waved, still half in awe of the brilliance of those leaves, spanned out so far above her head. She put her car in third gear and gunned past the palm tree, leaving it and its smile in her dust. At the bottom of a steep downhill slope, the girl—we shall now name her Elle—came upon a most glorious sight. There was a pool with the shadow of a rainbow coloring its surface. Frolicking in the water and running on the grass around it, were a dozen or so fluffy white puppies. Lurking back, in the shadows, were a few tiny kittens, barely able to lift their own heads; not quite ready to survey the scene. Elle approached the enclosure where the puppies and kitties reluctantly roamed. Standing near the entrance was a large bird. Elle would later identify it as an ostrich: an ostrich that bore a striking resemblance to Big Bird from her youth. She spoke with the ostrich, keeping her mouth in a big, round O as she spOke each wOrd. The ostrich informed her what the enclosure was. It was a farm. A breeding ground where only the most loving, friendly, compassionate puppies and kitties were produced. It was a euphoric place for breeders of ideal puppies and kitties. They were frequently paying the ostrich their two pence to spend an hour in the enclosure, admiring the young new animals. The ostrich offered Elle a discount of only one pence. She searched her pockets but could not find even half a pence. She explained this to the ostrich but he showed her no mercy. He rudely directed her up the hill to a second-rate kennel where crazy and vicious animals were accidently bred, only because the man in charge was a sparrow. He had no authority over the dogs, whatsoever. Elle decided not to go that way. She did not want to go somewhere she could accidentally be wounded. She sadly walked past the utopian dog kennel and hopped into her buggy that she had been cruising about in all this time. She put the car in gear and rolled down the hill and away from the many dogs. She dipped low until she was heading quickly down a beach towards some deep, purple water. Rather than step on the breaks, she pressed the gas and plunged into the sea. She kept going down until the pressure on the little car became a concern. But lower she went and the buggy held strong. She saw little cities from the future, in bright colors. She saw the statue of a woman holding a torch. She saw a tower, like a needle pointing straight towards the sky. There was a Golden bridge and a wall that stretched across the whole space. It was so beautiful down there on the bottom of the sea. There were tiny little fish that glowed in the water. They would look like stars to the tiny organisms living down among the sandy sidewalks. She was swimming among the stars, Elle thought. She tried looking around for more new discoveries, but the light was becoming dim. She turned on the headlights to her little vehicle, and they lit up only a small radius. She was not satisfied with the outcome, and she was going deeper still. As the pressure increased, Elle began to fear. Her stomach tied into a knot. Just then, the buggy crashed through the ceiling of a great big cave. The buggy fell like a pebble from top to bottom, and when it clattered down, the girl popped out. She looked up at the interior of the cave, and could scarcely believe her eyes. She looked up into a glorious atmosphere. It was like staring into the pictures from the Hubble Space Shuttle. It was bright and colorful and infinite. She stared at the ceiling until her head felt like a cloud that might float away and dissipate. She didn’t want that to happen, though. She closed her eyes tightly and looked down at the ground. Her head became a solid again, and she began following the path on foot. She saw giant one-dimensional Salvador Dali paintings, done in neon paints, glowing from black lights. She was having a psychedelic trip, feeling free and easy and afeared of nothing. She strolled along the neon-lit path. She reached a comfortable wooden door, knob on the right. She turned the knob and the door allowed her through. She walked down a great corridor, then down the steps to an endless ballroom. All the beautiful people she had ever seen in life or read about in magazines were twirling around the dance floor. The most handsome men were dancing with the B-list beauties. The Cougars were discussing facelifts and the DJ was a giant Swordfish, wearing a Tuxedo t-shirt. He was spinning 80s music and the bass was thumping. Elle had never seen or heard such a sound. She couldn’t help tapping her feet to the beat, just itching to join the beautiful people on the dance floor. She had just descended the stairs when the mood of the music turned sensual. Fields of Gold washed through Elle’s ears. She was very familiar with this song, she thought. She had lived her life to the tune of this song. Always mellow and unique. Always far eastern, never becoming the West Valley type. She was true to herself and all those she loved. She became a woman to that song that was now filling the ballroom. She searched the crowd of glamorous celebrities for the perfect partner with whom to dance. She glanced through the eyes of all her favorites: Russell Crowe, Robert Downey Jr, Colin Ferrell, Bruce Willis. Her eyes danced across Zac Efron’s and Bradley Cooper’s. Then they lighted on a pair of deep brown eyes, held in a tight manner, unsure of this beautiful woman he now had in his sights. She panned out from those perfect eyes and discovered the perfect nose and lips and jaw and hair that was Hugh Jackman. He was heroic even in person. When he saw the way her lip trembled, he eased his expression and his stance. He bid a quiet hello to the girl who was standing in the center of the ballroom. Elle could barely walk as she moved towards the prince before her. She extended her hands and the man took them both. He pressed his lips to the delicate skin between her knuckles, and the sky exploded with color. Elle could scarcely breathe, she was so entranced with the man. He was in every way flawless. From head to broad toe, he was the epitome of everything attractive and right and just in the world. He was the utopian man. Elle’s mind flashed to the perfect kennel where all the brilliant puppies and kitties were kept. But as her hands touched his forearms, any thought of overgrown pests went from her mind. She now had in her hands the girth and heat and passion of a real, human man. Her heart was hammering to beat the band. Her cheeks were flushed a red apple hue. She looked beautiful in all her embarrassment. The man leaned in to place a curious kiss on her lips. They kissed, passionately as can be expected. Then the camera panned out and away from the girl and her new mate. It showed the pond. The one with the rainbow surface. There were singing, dancing dolphins, twirling on the surface of the water like fountains. They were beautiful and shimmery as they sung and spun, looking like glory herself. Out came a lobster playing the electric guitar, making it scream and cry. It was a magnificent jam session with the crab playing the baby grand. Those dolphins kept singing and swaying until they began spinning and everyone got a bit of a headache as they twirled out of sight. The sun set. The stars and the moon rose bright in that deep green sky. It was like a green felt pool table with the contrast turned up. It was so green, nearly black. The stars looked pink, like little dots of watermelon in a vast shell.
As Elle looks up at that vast of sky, she notices the trees swaying at the outskirts of her vision. She is in a field, so it’s her field of vision. It’s a forest of those beautiful red palm trees. They’re like Midnight in Moscow red-black in this hollow night, when the stars look so distant. Elle walks to them and places her ear against the slow-moving trunk of the nearest giant palm tree. She hears beautiful music, the swells and dips of her favorite ballads and dirges. She hears Nick Cave and Mika and Norah Jones all serenading her, slowly and sweetly, with pain in their collective heart. Just as a tear wells up in her eye, Elle hears something rustle through the trees. She squints her eyes and discovers it’s a life-size My Little Pony. It’s a very pale yellow with a shooting star painted on its hindquarters. Elle can’t resist letting a smile spread over her face as she admires the pony’s shimmering white mane. She reaches out her hand, as if asking the pony if she may touch. The pony nods, and then giggles. “You know, I can speak,” the smooth, plastacine animal coos. Elle laughs as well and begins to carry on a conversation with the Little Pony

my name is mud

I looked down at the boots I had stolen. When I'd picked them up they'd been shiny black rubber. Now they were caked with a rich brown mud. The soles were disappearing in the muck with each step I took. I reveled in the squishing, squelching sound as I removed my foot and tromped again. I had always had such heightened auditory senses. I appreciated the seasons for their unique sounds: birds chirping in the summer, the infinitesimal sizzling of the sun on asphalt; the crunch and crackle of leaves and fire in the fall. I adored the audible silence of snow on snow, small animals breathing, the chomping noise of walking through a field of white in winter. In spring it was the mud. The mud and the movement of the trees as they pushed forth new and beautiful blossoms. I was very fond of the newness.

My arms were swinging in my sleeves, brushing against the top of my pants. The coat didn't belong to me, either. It was a dark wool exterior with a crimson satin liner. I loved the smooth swish of my arms against the fabric as I moved. For a change, I twirled my arms like windmill blades and listened to the zipping noise it produced. I wished I were as powerful as a windmill. I looked down at my small hands: punctuation marks on a short, slight frame. There was mud on the hem of the jacket, and lining the fingernails on my left hand. I didn't remember falling, but anything could have happened in the night. It had been such an incomprehensible blur. I swallowed the clouded memory and kept squishing along.

I didn't know where I was going. I had inadvertently run into the marsh in my desperation to escape the bad men. My brother had told me horses didn't do so good in the mud. He was always making things up, but this morsel of advice I chose to believe. If he was right, I figured I'd be home free. If he was wrong, well, I'd just end up in the orphanage right alongside him. That couldn't be the worst fate, could it? I shook this thought away and soldiered on.

Somewhere to my right I heard the rhythmic croak of a bullfrog. I squinted through the swamp trees and growth for the noisy amphibian, but had no luck. I wished I could camouflage myself with such ease. There was no telling who would spot me struggling through the mud, sticking out in my stolen wool coat like a black sheep in a flock of white. I hunched my narrow shoulders and kept my head down. Maybe my cap of dark brown curls would deceive any onlookers. Maybe they'd think I was just another weed.

After some distance, I heard the crackling and popping of a fire. I wondered first how anyone would start a fire burning in these wet conditions. I lifted my head and sniffed the air. It was a cooking fire. I detected the scent of melted butter curling around an air fowl as it floated on the breeze to meet me. I took a deep breath and redirected my footsteps so I would eventually come up on the food. I walked with my head back and my eyes closed, following the sounds of the spit and the scent of the vittles. I was so distracted by the enticing odor, I failed to notice the scent of dust and wood that suggested I was about to walk face-first into a cabin.

I did just that. There was a tremendous thud, and an uncomfortable throbbing in my nose that caused me to stumble backwards. The heel of the over-sized boot caught on a nearby root or rock, and I fell through the air like an axed tree. Timber! I thought as I landed heavily on my bottom in a sodding pool of mud. The goop splashed noisily before rocking back into place, hugging my body like porridge to the spoon. The very thought of food made my stomach tighten and ache once more. I felt my eyes smart with the pain and the humiliation of my situation. I wrapped my small fingers in a fist and was just about to punch the mud in defeat, when a voice distracted me.

"Eh, there's no use doing that. Gimme your hand before you muck it up," she said. I looked up into her soil-black eyes and gaped. She was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen, and she had one arm stretched out to me. The other was holding up the hem of a long, blue skirt, so as to not let it drag in the marsh mud. I looked quickly down at my own clothes, and again felt miserably embarrassed. Without a word, I reached up and watched as she wrapped her capable hand around mine and lifted me effortlessly out of the mud.

jezebel waiting

She was sitting by the window, just as she’d done every day for a month. She was twirling the razor blade in her fingers, just as she’d done every day for five months. It just seemed more logical to do it here by the window, as opposed to cowering in the bathtub like before. At least if she got the nerve up, bled out, and slumped in a heap in the flower bed, the mailman would see her eventually. She couldn’t say the same if she were lying in four inches of her own viciously red lifeblood. She sighed, took a sip of her iced tea, and waited.
She wasn’t sure at all what she was waiting for. She just had the overwhelming sense that she must wait, and so she did. She had never been the type to second-guess the promptings of Mother Nature. And it was Mother Nature who had advised her to wait in the first place. She had been standing on the porch, watering her hanging vines, when a small songbird pranced up the stairs and looked up at her from it’s perch on the peeling planks of wood.
“Wayyyy,” it sang. She asked it politely to sing again. “Wayyyyt,” it repeated.
“Did you say ‘wait’?” she asked incredulously.
The little bird dipped its head in a nod, or more logically to pick an invisible bug off the dry, cracked wood. “Wayyyt. Wayyyyt.” It whistled a few more times before nodding once more and flying away in the direction of the river. She had stood on the porch, watering can in hand, and waited for the rest of the afternoon. She told herself that if nothing noteworthy had occurred by sundown, she would resume waiting the following morning. This pattern had repeated itself every day for the past twenty-nine. Jezebel was tired of waiting.
She was watching a dragonfly maintain it’s place above the bobbing heads of her violets, when the telephone rang. With a displeased sigh at having been interrupted, she stood and walked to the dividing wall in the kitchen. She placed one hand on the back of the fading yellow phone and lifted it from the hook and to her ear.
Without a word, she waited for the caller to make him or herself known. “What’re you waiting for, Jezebel!?” the voice asked sharply.
With her mouth in a perfect O, Jezebel looked at the receiver and tried frantically to place who was calling. “Well. I can’t rightly s—”
She was cut off. “It’s me, Joe Abernathy! I’m in town and I was ‘spectin’ to see you, young lady! Get your britches down to the post office so’s I can give you a squeeze!”
Jezebel placed her razor blade on the counter and lifted her free hand to her neck. “Joseph?” she asked, very quietly.
“Yeah! Joseph. Joe. Who else would it be? Why you sound like you just seen a ghost, Miss Jezebel?” She hoped he’d continue, but he honestly wanted a response.
“Well, I never did expect to hear from you again, Joseph. That’s all. And you do sound so… clear.”
At this, Joseph James Abernathy let out a deep laugh. “Well, yeah, Miss Jezebel. It’s these new-fangled phones they have. Don’t even have a cord. You just punch in the number and they’ll connect you to anyone, anywheres. Inn’t that something? I just picked me one up a couple months back and I have been burning up the phone lines. Guess I shoulda called you sooner, but I haven’t been in town.” He paused. “Am now, though, so get your britches down here!”
Jezebel was tempted to remind him she was a proper lady and wouldn’t be caught dead in britches. She smoothed one hand over the back of her skirt and mumbled that she’d be right down. Without waiting for another bright, positive word from Joseph Abernathy, she hung up the phone, picked up her razor blade, and returned to her perch by the window.
It wasn’t long before the mailman, Mister Arthur Winslow, came whistling and high-stepping up to her front porch. He twiddled a few fingers through the window at her, and set about putting the bills in her mailbox. It took a great amount of effort on Jezebel’s part, but she stood and rushed to the door before he’d finished.
“Mister Winslow,” she began, nearly out of breath and flushed in the cheeks.
“Why, good day Miss Jezebel. What can I do you for?” He smiled and removed the end of his gnawed cigar from beneath his thin white mustache. He waited for her response with gentle eyes.
“Actually, Mister Winslow, I have quite a favor to ask of you.” She realized she was still flicking the razor blade between her fingers, and with a small gasp tucked it behind her back. “I need a ride to the post office. Joseph Abernathy is there waiting for me, and I don’t think I could make it walking.”
Arthur pondered this a moment before nodding, his smile widening. “Sure thing, little miss. These letters n’ things can wait for tomorrow. Let’s get you to your groom.”
Jezebel felt her cheeks flush at this. She thought of protesting, but decided against it. Joseph’s return would cause enough of a stir without her denying everything he was probably saying right this moment at the post office. God only knew what kind of damage Joseph James Abernathy could cause on a Thursday afternoon.
“I’m just going to step inside and collect my things. You wouldn’t mind pulling the truck around, would you, Mister Winslow?”
The skin around Arthur’s blue eyes crinkled as he looked at the damaged girl. “No, not at all, Miss Jezebel. I’ll be waiting just out here.”
She retreated into the house and wondered very briefly what sort of things she should take with her to meet Joseph. She had an overnight bag packed, as her mother had always advised. But she didn’t want to appear presumptuous. She had a handbag, but there wasn’t much in it but several Crush bottle caps and a few crumpled, unused tissues left over from her father’s funeral service. She set the razor on the seat by the window and decided to take both the handbag and the overnight bag. Mama had always said there was no such thing as being too prepared.
She slipped her coat over her dress, despite it being a pleasant 76 degrees outside. She never had been good with predicting the weather, and it could turn to rain any time of day or night. She locked the door and patted her pocket to make sure the key was there. When she felt confident that all was right inside her little house, she made her way to where Mister Winslow was idling his mail delivery truck.
“All set, Miss Jezebel?” he asked, putting one hand on the gear shift and extending one to his fare. She accepted his hand and pulled herself into the shredded fabric seat. It smelled of exhaust and stamp glue, and Jezebel felt a little more at ease with the whole situation. “Do forgive me, these things don’t come equipped with belts. If we do get in any kind of situation between here and the post office, I’ll be sure to hold onto you real tight.”
Jezebel was startled at the realization that an automobile might not be completely safe. She tried not to let her alarm show, and sat back in the car seat. She held onto her handbag and pinned her knees together around her overnight bag, so it wouldn’t slide. The ride to the post office was only about five minutes with the way Mister Winslow drove, and Jezebel was grateful for that. She was never any good at conversation, especially around people she admired as much as her mailman.
When they arrived in front of the short, squat building that housed the post office, Jezebel thanked him and politely extracted herself and her bags from the vehicle. She took a deep breath and headed for the sagging steps of the little government building. She made it just to the top step when the rusty hinges of the door burst open and there stood the love of her short life, in all his glory.
“Well I’ll be damned if it isn’t my Miss Jezebel Baker,” he sang, holding his strong arms out wide.
Her cheeks flushed again and she avoided looking into those silver eyes. “You watch your mouth, Joseph James. I’m likely to think you’ve spent the last seven months dealing with sailors.”
“And how you know I hain’t?” he asked with a wicked gleam in his eye. “You get your cute ass up here and hug me proper.”
Jezebel reluctantly let go of both her bags, and stepped the remaining two feet to where Joseph stood, waiting. She smiled shyly and wrapped her arms around his trunk. She could barely touch her own fingertips around the girth of him, and she felt herself warm all over at the memory. She rested her cheek on the pane of his chest and breathed in the scent of man and adventure and dusty things. She also paid very close attention to how his arms fell around her. At first, he was cautious, moving his arms gently around her upper back. But when he realized he wasn’t about to break her in two, he swept her up into his arms and twirled her around one, despite her shrieks of delighted protest.
“My Jezebel,” he breathed upon placing her back on the boards. “Look at you, pretty lady. They been telling me you bin keepin’ yourself holed up in that old house. What kinda thing is that to do with the beautiful face God gave ya?”
Her cheeks colored for the dozenth time. “You know me,” she said quietly, not really wanting to elaborate or explain what, to Joseph, might seem like peculiar behavior.
“I’m not so sure,” he said after a little too long. “Girly, when I met you, you were something else entirely.”
Jezebel waited a beat as well. Then she brought her swimming brown eyes up to meet his. “You know what they say,” she said quietly. “Time changes a person.”
And with that, Jezebel picked up her bags and began the trek back to her little old house. As she walked, feeling the heat on her hunched shoulders, wishing she had chosen to leave the coat at home, she realized that if Joseph really meant the things he had said to her all that time ago, he knew just where to find her.

It was nearly eight p.m. when Jezebel arrived, sodden wet, to her house. She was no longer regretting the rain coat, but if she was being honest, it hadn’t helped make the trek any less humiliating. She dropped the bags on the floor, just as she had upon seeing Joseph, and stepped up to the door. She pulled open the screeching screen door and went for her key. Her heart skipped when she realized it was no longer in her pocket.
“Oh, Jesus!” she cursed, half-praying and half-damning. “How could I be so foolish!” she shouted, fists balled and eyes welling up. She stomped her feet several times before slumping down in the porch swing. The runoff began dripping from the roof right into the back of her rain coat. She couldn’t catch a break. She tried to ignore the filthy trickle of the dusty water running into her coat as she hung her head into her hands and began sobbing.
She was thinking of how wretched her meeting with Joseph had gone, and regretting terribly the weakness she felt in all her extremities, when she heard a creak on the porch step. She whipped her head up to see who it was, but the cloud cover and the late hour didn’t help in identifying her visitor.
“Wh-who’s there? Who is that?” she asked, too sad and weak to bother standing to face her intruder.
“Don’t you worry your pretty head, Jez. It’s just me, Joe. Joseph.”
Jezebel’s heart returned to it’s steady beating pattern before racing again when she realized that his presence was almost worse than that of a stranger’s. “What are you doing here, Joseph James? I think I made myself very clear at the post office that I don’t want to see you.”
She could almost make out the crease of his forehead as she watched him. “I do beg to differ on that, Jezebel. You made yourself ‘bout as clear as mud, is what you did. If you’ll let me in to dry off I promise I’ll try n’ explain it all to ya. Please, give me a chance to do that much.”
She didn’t say anything for a while. She listened to the rain drip off the porch and water her flowers for her. That was one less chore she’d have to do in the morning, she told herself. “Fine, Joseph. I would let you in, I’ll give you that much. I’d let you in but I don’t have my key. It seems to have slipped from my pocket at some point between the post office and my front door. So if it’s all the same to you I guess we’ll just have to speak out here and wait for our death to find us.”
Joseph stepped closer, his round shoulders silhouetted against the dim ambient light of the world outside her front porch. “Now don’t get all worked up, little lady. I found yer key in the mud just before the sun gone down. How else you think I was gonna get inside if you locked me out?”
Jezebel battled momentarily with relief and utter disdain at his sneaky ways. She decided there was no use being angry at him for helping her out. She plucked the key from his thick, square fingers and turned sharply to the door. She inserted it forcefully into the lock and turned. “Grab my things,” she ordered haughtily before entering the house. She listened with satisfaction as the screen door banged closed behind her.
Ten minutes later, Jezebel was changed into a long nightdress, sitting in front of the fire with a cup of hot tea in her hands. Her feet were tucked under her bottom and her eyes were bright as she looked across the room at Joseph. He was sitting Indian-style on the bare patch of floor, trying to dry off. He wasn’t doing anything but looking at the flicking flames, thinking.
“Well,” Jezebel began after some time. “I do believe I let you in to explain yourself, not just sit there looking like… like…” She couldn’t finish out of embarrassment.
Her flustered accusation brought Joseph’s sparkling grey eyes across the room to rest on her. He smirked just the slightest bit. “Like what, Miss Jezebel?” He wasn’t teasing, he was genuinely curious and Jezebel felt her cheeks heat up. They always did when he addressed her directly. It reminded her of so many times before when he had whispered her name that very same way. The intimate times.
“I lost my words. That’s all.”
“I plead with you to find ‘em,” he said, his smile sweet and honest.
She took an indignant sip of her tea, enjoying the sweet refuge of the sugar melting over her tied tongue. It seemed to loosen it just a bit, and she admitted, “I was going to say you look just like Christ come on Easter morning, that’s how handsome you are. Satisfied with yourself?”
What had been intended as a playful jest on Jezebel’s part seemed to strike a chord within Joseph. He lowered his eyes and slid them back to the lazy, licking flames of the fire. “Not at all, Jez. Not in the teeniest, tiniest bit. I bin downright rotten.”
The confession caught Jezebel off guard. She thought about readjusting her legs, sitting forward with her elbows on her knees, but thought better of it. Perhaps if she played it casual, he would continue. Perhaps he would apologize. She didn’t want to do anything that might break this strange, conspiratorial spell around her and her husband.
He took a deep breath, but kept his eyes glued to the fire. He began flicking his thumb against the inside of his index finger, like he usually did when he was nervous. He even had a callus from it, if Jezebel remembered correctly. She had always adored his hands.
“I know you probably got a million and two reasons to wanna be rid of me, girl. I know you got all sorts of reasons flying around in that head of yours, too. But sometimes, the worst part of it all, is that you don’ even know why I left. Do ya?” He still didn’t look at her, just waited for her response.
“Suppose I don’t, Joseph. Why don’t you just tell me, then?” She couldn’t help the bite in her voice. She hadn’t seen the man in seven long months. She had survived a hundred things without his help, and wasn’t so sure she needed him around after all. But it was at that moment, as she watched him in the firelight and remembered what the small bird had said, that she realized perhaps this is what she’d been waiting for after all. She swallowed the lump in her throat and set her tea on the small table beside her chair. She waited.
“Your father,” Joseph began darkly. “I hate to be a cliché, Jez, I really do. But you know better’n most that man was a sonuvabitch. I jus’ couldn’t be around him no more. I had to get out and get my head cleared.”
“And leave me here with him?” she asked quietly.
The air in the room went still. Silent. It felt almost as if Cleveland Baker had walked right through the front door. Jezebel’s heart stilled at the horrible idea, and she began kneading her hands, wishing she had the comfortable edge of her razor to occupy her fingers. She looked frantically at Joseph, silently pleading that he’d bring his eyes to hers. It seemed to work, and those bright, clear orbs of light looked right through her.
“What did he do to you?” he asked darkly, the flames reflecting in his eyes in such a way. He looked like the fury of the Devil was in him. Jezebel knew better than to be frightened of Joseph, but the whole situation was just too tense for her. Her bottom lip began to quiver and she folded her arms around her upper half. She shook her head once, as if to signal that the conversation was over. He was welcome to leave.
“No chance, Jezebel,” Joseph said in his throat, looking at her for all the answers. “You tell me what he did and I’ll do anything I can to fix it. Anything. I done wrong leaving you here with that monster. Tell me.”
Her thoughts were swirling and colliding within her head. They had a habit of doing that, creating an impossible whirlwind that left her confused and dizzy. She sometimes wished she were a bull rider with a lasso, so she could swing in there and grab the thoughts she wanted. She shook her head, hoping the debris of her mind would settle into something she could manage. “Take me to bed,” she finally whispered, not daring to look at Joseph.
“Jez, that’s not gonna help matters. We need to dis—”
“Take me to bed, damn it!” she shouted, still looking at the pattern in the carpet. She felt the flames behind her own eyes, and wondered if it would be enough to persuade her husband. The air was still as quiet and still as before, but Jezebel felt a strange sense of control now. “I’ve been waiting for you for eight months, Joseph James Abernathy. You come into my house tonight and ask me what happened while you were gone? Well all that can wait. First, I am going to get what I want. You are my husband, and you take me to bed.”
It amazed Jezebel that after all that time, and all those feelings, the sensation of her body against Joseph’s never really changed. She could be stark, raving mad at the man one minute, totally head-over-heels in love with him the next, and spectacularly indifferent right after that. But when it came time for lovemaking, Jezebel and Joseph Abernathy were completely and undeniably in synch.
The way she slid her delicate fingers over his chest and stomach and groin made every hair on both their bodies stand on end. The way her mouth moved around the landmarks—his lips, nipples, fingertips—made them both vibrate with excitement. The warmth and depth of their kisses reminded them both that no matter what kind of rough patches they hit, they would somehow make it out, hand-in-hand, on the other side.
They brought each other to euphoria several times that first night. By morning they were completely exhausted both physically and emotionally. The only logical choice was to sleep through much of the day. It wasn’t till well after noon that Jezebel finally declared it time to have the discussion.
“Joseph,” she began softly, in a tone that almost suggested another roll in the sheets. “Why did you leave me alone with him?”
He kept his eyes closed, obviously lost in thoughts that teetered on the edge of the relationship they were just now rebuilding, and the one he had thoughtlessly knocked down months before. He began flicking his finger again. Jezebel reached over and placed her hand in his, to quiet it. She admired the calluses, rough and dry as they were against her frail hands.
“I woulda killed him, Jez. I woulda killed him, no doubt an’ I sure as hell don’t know what that woulda done to you.”
She thought about how to proceed carefully. “Would that not have been better?”
She thought she saw Joseph’s eyelids flutter, but she must have been mistaken. If anything, he closed them tighter. “Okay, even if my killin’ Cleveland woulda made things better sooner, it woulda been a whole diff’rent game if I’da been hauled away to jail. You know that.”
She imagined Joseph being locked behind bars, the blood of her father staining his clothes and his hands and his reputation. He was too good a man for that kind of fate. At least he had been before. She wasn’t sure exactly what kind of man he was anymore. She sighed and realized he was right. Maybe leaving had been the only option.
“You really ought to have taken me with you,” she said quietly, not wishing to upset her husband, but not willing to let the words go unspoken. She was very determined to get the point across to Joseph: Never again in their marriage would he leave her behind.
He sighed, still refusing to open his eyes and face the world around him. She wondered if he was imagining he was somewhere else. Many nights she had laid down alone, she had imagined she was back in her childhood home, swaying in the hammock with her mama, listening to the crickets chirp and the water lap against the shore of the river. Some nights she had imagined she were back in the bed of her honeymoon, those pale blue sheets hugging her and Joseph like a cocoon.
“I know I shoulda. I know it now, but I din’t know it then. I din’t even know where I was headed, Jez. How did I know I coulda kept you safer out there with me than you were here with him?”
“Suppose you didn’t,” Jezebel conceded. She picked at a loose tie in the quilt and cast her eyes to the ceiling. “I guess I just need to hear you say you aren’t going to do it ever again. I just need to know for sure that you won’t abandon me again. I almost didn’t make it this time. Lord knows I won’t make it if you do it again.”
This statement, this final admission, was enough to draw Joseph from the sanctuary behind his eyelids. He turned his head just a bit and stared at her over her shoulder. “What you mean you almost didn’t make it, Jezebel? What do you mean by that?”
She sighed, not wishing to admit her weakness to this man who she truly believed could move mountains. But in the eight months she hadn’t uttered a word to him, she had certainly thought of this conversation enough to know she couldn’t keep quiet. She focused intently on the loose knot in the quilt. The yarn was red and frayed at both ends. She brushed the soft fibers against the pad of her finger and said quietly,
“You left a couple of your straight razors in the bathroom. I used to sit there on the toilet seat staring at the sharp edges, just dreaming I could escape. After a couple weeks of that, I picked the razor up. I would twirl it in my fingers and think of how easily it could slip and take me away. You probably never hit desperation like I hit, Joseph. You probably think I’m a crazy for even thinking these things, let alone saying them to you now.”
At some point during her confession, Joseph had slid up in the bed and was now sitting with his back against the headboard. His back was hunched, rounded by the weight of his thoughts. “Jezebel,” he began testily.
“No, sir. Keep quiet. I am not done.” She paused to make sure she had his cooperation. When he didn’t say another word, or even breathe, for that matter, she continued. “It wasn’t long before he began knocking down the door, telling me I had no business taking so long in there. I’d come out, do his bidding, whatever it was, and then I’d go back in there to stare at the razors some more. These days I’m quite good at twirling them between my fingers. Sure, I get nicked every once in a while, but I keep plenty of Band-Aids. I don’t think I’ve cut myself once since he passed. Just one of the small mercies that’s come from it, I guess.”
Joseph shrugged. “And you got me back.”
This surprised Jezebel a little. She wasn’t sure to that point exactly what had brought him back. “Is that so? You heard he died and came rushing back here? You know he’s been in the ground five weeks now.”
“I know that,” he said quietly, sadly. Perhaps he felt he should’ve been back much sooner. “I was quite a ways away when I got the news. I couldn’t just jump on a plane then. I had to find my own way back.”
Being as this was the first indication Joseph had given regarding his whereabouts, Jezebel chose to tread very lightly. Or as lightly as she knew how. “Where were you?”
Joseph sighed and thought for some time. Without a word he reached out and stroked the back of Jezebel’s arm with his knuckles. “You know I love you, Miss Jezebel. You know nothin’ could change that.”
She didn’t look at him. “Where were you?” she repeated impatiently.
Another sigh. “I was in Californ’a.”
Jezebel’s heart stopped for a moment. No wonder he’d been so reluctant, so silent. She knew, as did every other person in town aged twelve or greater, that Donatella Montego—previously Debbi McDaniels of local beauty pageant fame—lived in Los Angeles, California. Everyone else also knew that back in high school, Joseph and Debbi had been inseparable. Jezebel worried she might be sick. But Joseph swooped in with a quick save.
“It ain’t what you think, Jez. I never even saw Debbi outside them newspapers they keep by the check out counter at the supermarket. Boy, is she makin’ a mess of the life God gave her. That ain’t why I went there. I just thought—” He paused and looked more childish and sheepish than Jezebel had ever seen him. Her heart resumed beating and melted like sugar in the rain. “I thought I could make a better life for us, is all. Inn’t that where the American Dream comes from, anyhow? The sandy shores of Californ’a?”
Jezebel was quiet a moment. “I can’t rightly say. My American Dream has always been right here beside you.” She turned to look at him over her right shoulder, and wasn’t surprised to see the look of warmth and bashfulness on his handsome face. She laid back until her head was resting against the crook of his shoulder. She watched his strong fingers come up and brush a wisp of her hair out of her face. He bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead. She looked up at him at such an angle it was giving her a headache, but she ignored it. “So did you bring me anything?”
Joseph smiled and shook his head slowly. “I did get ya a necklace, but it din’t survive the trip back east. I had to barter it for a bus ticket somewheres in Texas. I’ll make it up to you, Jez. I do promise you that.”
While she was mildly saddened to learn of the necklace she’d never receive, Jezebel couldn’t deny having her husband back was worth it. “Well, that’s good. You can start by making me breakfast.” With another kiss on her forehead, Joseph extracted himself from the bed and made his way to the kitchen. Jezebel watched the movement of his buttocks with a warm smile on her face and a glow in her heart. She didn’t have to wait any longer.