Chimera

Volumes where the golden insect crawled fetch glory by the yard, but there is no communication between the ink and the eye, for try as they might, libraries cannot express the depth of what they lack in emotion. Sharp-toothed keys assist the explorer in gaining entry to a world renowned for its emptiness, but there is never any action in the quotidian balance. Read, read, read, they said. However, he was left alone to ponder the fruitlessness of his desperation. Sadly, Hugo observed the declination of reason as three virgins giggled and proceeded to retain their innocence, which, by the way, was neither innocent nor retainable. They must have known what was on offer without the experience, he calculated, for there was guile in their laughter. One of them, she of the radiant halo, dipped and scooped up the golden spider leaving only its latest unreadable tome in a web of silky verbosity. Virgin or muse, he could not tell. Still, he was news once again without the slightest perception of validation. Everything he touched glowed and shimmered in an ephemeral way. Yet, he never doubted all was at their behest.
Popping, he shriveled almost immediately and shortly thereafter he noticed he was losing hair again and there were liver spots.

This Came for You

Hilary Jane Burckhardt moved into the apartment on Riverside Drive on a sunny day five months after Mrs. Akkerman died but it was on a rainy day three months later that Mrs. Akkerman began causing trouble.

It was not until much later, Hilary learned that was the same day Janisch Akkerman’s girlfriend Wenche had had an abortion and that that aborted fetus would have been Mrs. Akkerman’s only grandchild.

It was raining all morning. It was a Saturday. Hilary had printed out twenty stories to review because todo so on her monitor, even though it was twenty-one inches, bothered her eyes after a short time. Her father claimed she was ruining her eyesight and her health in general because she had taken on too much work and was not getting enough sleep. Now she had her own apartment in the city, she did not have to listen to his carping.

She made a cup of herbal tea and propped up over-stuffed pillows to get comfortable in a corner of her white leather sofa. In a bowl on the glass coffee table were celery and carrot sticks. Next to the bowl, cradleless, sat the cordless telephone. Hilary found when she was deeply involved in evaluating scripts, if the phone rang, she could not easily re-establish her rapport with the writer if she had to walk away from and return to her perch, but this way she could answer and say, “I’ll call you back later,” without feeling guilty or neglectful to either party.

The first two scripts were by inexperienced writers and were thus underdeveloped and forgettable, but the third was a horror story called This Came for You. It was gripping and admirably polished. Hilary knew a third of the way through she would be recommending the piece for inclusion in the next issue of Prototype.

Just as the indescribable horror was being described on the page, Hilary heard a noise across the room. She looked up at the foot high brass letters H J B on the opposite wall. The J gave way and fell to the floor. Then it slid across and under the sofa as if being pulled with a magnet from the apartment below and it crashed into the wall behind her. She jumped up and in so doing knocked over the little bowl of vegetables and the teacup causing them to smash into many pieces.

“What perfect timing,” she heard herself say aloud. She knew cleaning up the mess would break her concentration, just as a phone call would, so decided to put the rest of the scripts aside until later. She had a closet to clean out.

Janisch Akkerman had not done a very thorough job cleaning away his mother’s effects but had prevailed upon Hilary to hold onto a few boxes of things until he could come and get them. Three months had passed and he had not contacted her again. When she finally called the number he had given her, she learned the number was no longer in use. She had as yet no success tracking him down via the Internet or the usual avenues she might use for research but felt with persistence she would eventually find him. In the interim, she had decided she would look through the boxes she had previously left unopened. Now was the time.

The buzzer rang and when she answered it, the doorman told her there was a package for her down in the lobby. She told him she would come down for it later. She was in no rush. It was a box of groceries from her father. He had had one of his office lackeys go out with a shopping list and pick up health foods and produce and then bring the stuff up to her building.

She knew the doorman went off duty at three and figured she would have one of the porters bring up the box for her when the second doorman was on. He at least might think she had had the groceries delivered from a local market rather than having received them from a Burckhardt employee. She wondered why her father would go out of his way to embarrass her in front of her building employees. And why he could not trust her to take care of her own needs.

Hilary did her best to clean up the broken cup and bowl, and while reaching under the sofa to retrieve the brass J, she cut her finger on a stray sliver of glass. Though she tried her best to avoid doing so, a couple of drops of blood fell onto the white rug under the coffee table, and she knew immediately the rug was lost. Although she washed and bandaged her finger, she hadn’t noticed there was blood on the back of the J until she replaced it on the wall, and in adjusting it made the situation worse. Scrubbing with a wet cloth, she wore away paint, but the stain would not wash off.

Then, the buzzer sounded again. At the intercom, she could sense the annoyance in her own voice as she asked, “Yes, what is it?” and was a bit startled to hear the doorman respond, “Nobody rang, ma’m.” Lord, how she hated being addressed as if she were her mother’s age!

Everything seemed to be going wrong all at once.

She thought about the bedroom closet, but hesitated, waiting for another sound to set her in motion, and then it came. A knock on the door. Nobody ever knocked on her door, unless she requested the services of the handyman, which she had not done for nearly three months.

Looking through the peephole and seeing nobody, she felt the hairs on her arm flutter as she put her hand to the knob. When she heard another knock, she almost gave in to the impulse to ignore it and run into the other room, slip back under the duvet and try starting the day over again, but she could hear her father’s patronizing voice saying, “Hilary, you’re a woman, now,” as if he suddenly realized the truth one day. She turned the doorknob expecting to find one of the neighbor children standing outside looking up at her more confused than she felt at the moment.

What she found was an unattended package wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine, with the letter J written in red marker. Oddly, the letter ran over the cord, as if it had been added as an afterthought. The thing was too small to be the CARE pack she expected from her father, and she became unnerved. She glanced toward either end of the empty hall, and down again at the package, standing in her doorway for several minutes not knowing what to do.

Read responses by:
Ed Dean
Grey Johnson
Paul de Denus

Performance

He drove up in a rented car, half the size of the one he had back home, and his wife got in. Then he headed toward the bank. He’d had several tacos with a very picante salsa and a couple of beers for lunch while she had insisted on eating steak and potatoes in the hotel dining room. They were on vacation, for chrissakes! Now, she was wearing too much make-up and an orange blouse with sunflowers on it. Obviously, she’d wanted to stay behind so she could change her outfit yet again. Visiting places with her got up that way made him feel so much like some stupid tourist. Thank god she had no itinerary planned for today. At the corner he had to stop for a light.

“Can I have a cigarette?” George asked.

Brenda pulled out two, lit them and handed him one. “You know, we really should cut down,” she said.

In the intersection, a bare-chested young man in dirty pants laid down a cloth-wrapped bundle and opened it. He quickly arranged his props.

“Oh no,” she said, “Please don’t.”

“He’s going to do it.”

“I just ate my lunch.”

The young man spread several pieces of broken glass on the cloth and, for just a few seconds, lay face-downward, his ribs on top of the shards. Then he stood up again. The shiny brown skin of his chest was unmarked in any way.

Next, he picked up two rods each about half a meter in length. At first, George thought he was going to light them and perform the fire-breathing stunt. Brenda had translated an article from the local newspaper about the Mexican government trying to get the fire-breathers off the street and into rehabilitation centers. The kerosene they held in their mouths to do the trick burned the insides of the mouth and throat, affected their brains, and their career-expectancies were nine months to a year at most. But this kid surprised him.

As he inserted one rod for what seemed half its length up into his right nostril, Brenda looked up the street in another direction. She tossed her cigarette out the window.

“God, that’s gross,” George said, “He looks like some kind of surreal walrus.”

“Oh, don’t tell me,” she said, “I don’t want to know.”

“Have you got a peso?” George asked.

“You want to pay him for doing that?” As she turned around to see if she had any coins in her pocket, she must have caught sight of the youth removing the second rod because she flinched. She asked how it was possible to put something that far up one’s nose. He thought she was about to upchuck that expensive steak. Looking away again, she handed him some money and said, “People should pay him not to do it.”

“I think that’s the point,” George said. He handed a coin to the performer. The light changed and he drove on.

“Why couldn’t he just dress up like one of the clowns and juggle or do somersaults?” Brenda asked.

“Maybe he’d find that too demeaning,” George said, “At least he’s doing something for the money. Not like most of the homeless people back home in New York, who just sit in the street and beg.”

“What about the window-wipers on the Bowery?”

“I always give them something. They do me a service.”

“Yes, they smear your windshield with a dirty rag. And you know they’re only going to buy wine with the money,” Brenda said. “These boys are more likely doing this for food for their families.” She patted her permed hair in that way he found irritating.

“Hey, what a man does with the money he earns makes no never mind to me,” George said, “So long as he does something to earn it. Here’s the bank. Stay in the car and I’ll run in and make a withdrawal.”

“Take out enough so I can stop at the artisan’s place later. I promised my brother and Alison I’d bring them some souvenirs.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” George said, closing the rental-car door with extra force. Did she even listen to him anymore when he spoke, he wondered.

“Oh, I understand you, George. You have your priorities and I have mine,” she said, “Besides, I need something to keep me occupied while you spend all afternoon and evening on the toilet.”

Some Things You Never Forget

We were having one of our big arguments. I don’t remember now what it was about. We were always arguing about something and usually the root of the disagreement was money or the lack of it. She said, “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your body.” I remember that because she said it frequently. No, I don’t remember what actually started the argument, but I remember hearing those words. Some things you never forget, especially if they are repeated frequently. I cannot hear her voice saying those words, now, I have forgotten its timber, its pitch, but I remember the words.
I remember the first time I kissed her, or she kissed me. I don’t really remember who kissed whom, but I remember the taste on the edge of her tongue. We kissed each other so many times over the years. I don’t remember the reason for each kiss. Sometimes it was because we were going out and it was our habit to kiss each other before leaving the apartment. Sometimes we were kissing to make up after one of our arguments. Sometimes it was just one more thing to do while we were having sex, or because we were greeting each other after having been separated for one reason or another. But none of those kisses ever tasted like that first one did. I know because I always expected one to. I remembered that soft minty, herbal taste. Maybe it is because none ever tasted that way again that I don’t clearly remember any of the others nor the specific reasons for kissing in those instances. I was searching for a remembered taste.
I remember the last time we said goodbye to each other. We did not kiss nor had we argued. We just mutually came to a decision to end our relationship. I felt a little sad. She appeared to be feeling sad. We had lived together for six and a half years and we had dated two or three times a week for three years before that. She moved into my apartment, and then when we decided to end the relationship, she chose to move out, though I told her she could stay and I would move, if she wanted it that way. “No, ” she said, “You stay. You’ll never find another place for the kind of rent you’re paying here.” I had lived there for eleven years at that point, more than half of those with her. She went to live with her sister for a while, in Philadelphia’s Central City, until she could find a place of her own. She said it was like a mini-Manhattan. I wound up moving anyway–too many memories attached to the apartment. I don’t remember clearly the day she moved in with me, but I distinctly remember the day she left, and how sad I felt that evening. I drank a bottle and a half of Turning Leaf California Chardonnay and talked to the cat. He had nothing to offer by way of commiseration, only let me know when it was time to feed him. I was so bombed by that point I spilled half of the catfood on the floor beside his dish. I guess he was offended because it was still there in the morning although he had eaten the portion that landed in the dish. Cara sent a friend to pick up her things that weekend to drive them down to Philly. Since she had not come for her things herself, and I figured her friend wouldn’t know, I left a sweater she had worn two days before she left up on the shelf in the closet. I told her friend, “I guess that’s everything,” and helped her take Cara’s stuff down in the elevator and out to her Volkswagen. Then I went back up to the apartment and took the sweater out of the closet and held it to my nose to see if it had that herbal, minty smell and it could take me back nine years, but it smelled like clean wool, nothing more.
I remember the last time we spoke over the telephone. I called her sister to wish her a Merry Christmas this past December and I guess I wanted to find out how Cara was doing. I mean, her sister and I were never that close and I had never called her on the holidays before, but I did this time. We exchanged pleasantries. Then I asked, “How’s Cara doing?”
“Hold on,” she said, “I’ll put her on.” She was still living there ten months after leaving Manhattan.
There was a moment or two of silence and I could picture her sister holding out the phone to Cara and telling her it was me, and Cara saying in a whisper, “I don’t think I want to speak to him,” and her sister saying, “Oh, go ahead. He only wants to wish you happy holidays.”
Finally, Cara spoke into the phone. “How are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Merry Christmas, Cara.”
“Merry Christmas to you too.”
“Still haven’t found a place? I didn’t expect you’d still be at your sister’s”
“Oh, I’ll be here for a while, yet,” she answered, “Money’s a little tight. I’m getting by all right, but I’m not quite ready to go out on my own yet. I’m saving for the day. What about you?”
“I moved. It’s a much smaller place, at almost the same rent. It’s a little cheaper, but I keep bumping into the furniture. I moved about two months after you went to Philly. The cat wandered off during the move. He never came home again, at least not here, nor to the other place.”
“I heard, ” she said, “through friends. Well, you take care. And have a happy holiday.”
“Cara…” I started to say something else, but she had hung up. I don’t remember now what it was I was going to say. I just remember how the conversation seemed truncated. I started to put the receiver down, but brought the earpiece back to my nose. I know. It was a silly thing to do, thinking I might smell the scent I had been searching for. I didn’t, but some things you’ll never forget.

Transference

When autumn arrived again the whole situation was murky. Not on the surface. Ostensibly, everything appeared as it had before only now there was an undercurrent in which the truth swished and swayed. I was a woman alone. I’d said some things I could not take back. I’d told him how I felt and for how long I’d felt that way and I’m sure it made me look bad.

He still set up things for me to do. He still announced these tasks in front of others. I was still proud and trying to prove myself efficient. Still afraid of the possibilities; only now he knew. The knowledge gave him an advantage. He could berate me for any little thing and what could I do but acquiesce? Sure, I could just pack it in and move on to another place. I could go to England as I’d originally planned. Or Toronto. But to do so would announce to all that there had been a contest of wills between us and I had lost. His reputation would be sullied and I would be alone for the second time in one year.

He told me it was transferrence. I knew it was. Except that it had started before I lost Eric.

When I said, I have something I have to tell you, he said, No, you don’t.

Yes, I said, No, you don’t, he said.

It was an innocent lunch and I had told him he looked his age. No, that’s incorrect. It had not been innocent. We had eaten lunch both aware that there was more beneath the surface, but he was willing to let it lie while I was boiling and about to erupt.

For some time I had been aware that the only acceptable emotion, though strictly unsatisfying, was to get him riled and feel the heat of his discomfort. He was unaware of those dynamics, but I would go back to my desk after one of these encounters and I would feel dizzy with keeping quiet about what I knew had occurred. I would wonder, is he being discreet or is he ignorant of what just happened? Does he think I really want to see him annoyed? Does he not realize my emotions are making me say things I very quickly regret?

From the way he reacted, he obviously knew all along.

He told me it was transferrence and that I only directed my feelings toward him because I knew it was safe. Nothing could happen because he was monogamously involved and had a son. Yes, I knew this. But I also observed over time that he paid more attention to me than to any of the others.

When he told Enid about how I would be handling the timesheets from now on, I took it to mean he is willing to overlook my true confession, but I also see that he is covering himself. I am sure his wife advised him how to react. Oh, yes, I am certain at this point he has spoken to her. If I were to do anything stupid, he could say, I never suspected she felt that way, I just thought she was a good worker and I was willing to give her more responsibility, she must have mistaken my intentions. He has mistaken me. I would never do anything stupid. I mean dangerously stupid. My only error was in crossing the line and saying what we both knew was happening. In that regard, I always seem to do the foolish thing.

That was how I met and fell in love with my husband, Eric. I miss him so much. Perhaps I am transferring some of that feeling to William, but the truth is I started feeling heat from him long before Eric became ill. I was being discreet then. Except for this one slip, I will continue to be so.

I hope to work with William for quite a long time. He helped me through the roughest season of my life. He has told me he’s counting on me. He’s told others he believes I am capable. I must not give him cause to waver.

Talking to Dad

– Dad, It’s me, Peter.

Why’d you double lock the door?

Never mind,

– I’ve got my key.

– Dad? Susan’s going to be a little late today. She called me and told me. So I came over to see if you need anything. Dad?

Oh, still in bed.

– Listen, I’ll make some tea and we can sit and talk for a while. Don’t try to get up. I’ll help you after I get the water on.

Kitchen’s spotless. I guess Susan is earning her money. She doesn’t really have to do all this, what with taking care of his other needs.

– I spoke to Aunt Anne yesterday. She sends her regards. I told her you were doing all right.

Now, where’re the teabags? Don’t seem to be any here in the fridge. Oh, there behind his insulin. God, looks like he’s got enough to last a couple months.

–Dad, are you taking your insulin everyday? I’m going to ask Susan when she gets here, ’cause I know you’ll just tell me what I want to hear.

It’s so warm in here. Okay, let it steep three minutes. A little bit of milk. I bet he misses his sugar. He doesn’t have to know I take a spoonful, but I bet he hears me rattling the sugar bowl.

Okay, a couple of these plain biscuits and we’re all set.

– Here we go, Dad, a nice cup of tea and some biscuits. Susan’ll be here in an hour or so. You don’t have to use the toilet or anything, do you?

– It’s so dark in here and it’s a beautiful day outside. Let me put this down over here and I’ll open the blinds a bit.

There, that’s better.

– I have a lot of things to tell you Dad, so I’m glad we have this time together before Susan gets here. I guess with her here twelve hours a day, you sometimes don’t get enough time to think. She keeps you busy, right?

– We’re going to miss her when she goes for her RN license, but the agency will send over someone just as efficient. I hope it’s another woman and she’s as nice as Susan. I’ll specify that’s what we want.

– Don’t try to drink that tea just yet. It’s too hot. Have a biscuit.

– What’d you do, knock your pill bottle over? Here, let me get that.

Almost empty. So low on the pills and so much insulin left. Going to have to straighten this out with Susan.

– Aunt Anne gave me a letter from Uncle Jack. Let me get it out of my case and I’ll read it to you.

Let me see. Here. This is it.

– Aunt Anne said Uncle Jack was going to send it to you, but since I was coming over, she wanted me to bring it so I could read it to you instead of Susan, well, she said instead of the home care attendant. Here’s what it says.

– Dear Pete. I’m sorry for my part in the events that have caused us not to be close for the last fifteen years. I would like more than anything to let bygones be and come over and see you. We are brothers after all. It’s just, I need to know you forgive me for being a fool, but I don’t want to give you further cause to think me foolish by coming to visit without your invite. I’m truly sorry we haven’t spoken to each other in so many years. We’ve lost a lot of time, but don’t let’s lose it all. What do you say? Jack.

– How about that Dad? It took him long enough, didn’t it? You know Aunt Anne has been after him for so long to make amends. She misses you. And Mom. I miss Mom too, Dad.

– Here, I’m going to leave this on your night table and you speak to Uncle Jack when you’re ready.

– That tea is all right now. It’s cooled a bit.

– Remember how Mom used to make it with the loose tea. She would never have teabags in the house. We always had to wait three minutes, no more, no less. It should be a little darker than amber before you put the milk in, she always said.

Still have her things on the dresser. Her brush and combs. Never let Susan move them, only dust them. Her wedding band still on your little finger. I know a couple of her housedresses are hanging in the corner closet.

– Oh, I know you took care of all the financial arrangements, but remember at first I didn’t know whether to call an ambulance or the police. We’re both a bit self-centered. We’re lucky to have Aunt Anne. She took care of all those early details. You know, I thought at the time, I really couldn’t depend on you, but you’ve been like a rock since then. I don’t know what I would have done if I lost you both together. I don’t know why I’m bringing all this up. It’s just we’ve never discussed it and it bothers me a little we’ve never been able to communicate our grief to each other.

Or our happiness, for that matter.

– So many times I wanted you to be there and you couldn’t be.

I wanted you to be there for my graduation from grammar school. For my graduation from high school. For…

– It’s all right, I’m working now. I’ve got a good job. I’m up for a raise in a couple weeks.

– Dad, I still think about Mom all the time. Sometimes, I get like a zombie where I’m blindly reliving those days after her funeral. I wish you and I had been closer. I don’t remember too much of those days, but when I think about them, I imagine I handled everything just the way you would’ve wanted me to.

– I did, right?

– Sometimes, I wake from a dream and it feels so real. In the dream, Mom says, Everything was fine, Peter. You did me proud.

I know she really wanted you there. I was just the chip. The chip off your old block.

– Did you hear about Mr. Abbott and his wife? They’ve made up with each other. He still calls me every so often and asks how you are. I thank him every time for being there and calling the medics.

I haven’t spoken to him in months. Not since before their divorce. But you were lucky to have him for a neighbor.

– After the diabetes, who could have foreseen the renal failure? The day I called and there was no answer and then Mr. Abbott called and said you were taken to the hospital, all the way over in Staten Island, Dad, I never understood why they took you all the way over there.

Supposed to be the best dialysis set-up in the city, but I think it was because we didn’t have the money. Leave it to Mom to take care of things. You were even luckier to have her for a wife. Or to be her widower. I thought for a while I hated you. Hated you’re being my father. But Mom wouldn’t let me stay angry.

– I know I don’t say it often enough, but I love you, Dad.

You don’t have to say anything.

– Let me bring these teacups out to the kitchen.

And I’ll put this away. You won’t need this letter. I think it’s the one I got from the magazine.

Why was Uncle Jack so angry? With you? He was always nice to Mom.

I’m sorry about the letter, but I was sure that’s what he would have wanted to say. He just didn’t get around to it.

– Susan should be here shortly. I’m going to have some things to ask her, let me tell you.

Like why she isn’t here already.

Can’t complain really, though, she’s been very good about so many things. What would I do without her? How could I work?

Mom would have been jealous of the way Susan takes care of you.

Mom would have said, Get your young girlfriend to do it.

Get her to clean up after you.

Why have Peter come all the way in from the city, when your insurance covers a home care attendant. Got a job to maintain.

There are reasons for everything, but why’d you lock the door.

Mom was the planner.

Mom would have said, Mom would have said, You did me proud, Peter.

Dad, don’t leave. Please. Everything is fine. Mom would have said…

Scratch. Scratching. Tapping. Someone knocking.

Must have dozed off.

– Well, Dad, that sounds like Susan. I’d better go let her in.

– Good-bye, Dad.

“Susan, I’m so glad you’re here. I have to ask for your help with Dad.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Donsie, that’s what I’m…Mr. Donsie, what is it? Oh, no, Mr. Donsie, don’t tell me…”

“I, don’t…”

“No.”

“Yes, I’m afraid he’s passed away.”

“Oh Mr. Donsie. Peter, I’m so sorry.”

“It must have happened sometime this morning. I think he was expecting it. He double locked the door after you left him last night. He’s still warm. Oh, Susan, my dad’s gone, and I miss him already.”

“Don’t. Don’t be upset Peter. Please, for him. It’s been so hard for him. He’s at peace now. He’s with your mum.”

“I…Will you help me? I don’t know what to do.”

A Measure of Success

Peck wakes from a dream of flying to the sound of someone knocking on his door and finds he has slept all night on his couch. Never made it to the bed. He stumbles past the litter, and rubbing his eyes, he asks, “Who is it?”
“Open up, I’ve got something for you,” says a female voice he recognizes.
He hasn’t seen Sheila in almost a year.
He lets her in and accepts her assessment with equanimity. “This place is a pigsty. I would ask how you’ve been doing,” she says, “but I can see you’ve been doing nothing. Sleeping a lot again?”
“Umm,” Peck says.
Sheila is carrying something the size of a newborn baby wrapped in brown paper, which she places on the only chair without clothes draped over it. She says things to Peck that he feels are supposed to fill him in on what she has been up to during the time they’ve been separated, but he is distracted by an idea he’s been tossing around in his head.
She goes into the kitchen and he can hear the sound of water running. Is she getting a drink? Is she washing his dishes?
“I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t know exactly for what he’s apologizing. He sits on top of shirts and pants in a chair facing the one with the package on it, and asks, “What is it?”
“In a minute,” Sheila says. But he nods off again. He’s so damned tired all the time now.

Another knock on the door disturbs him, just when he’s on the point of finding the key to his Concept. Almost had it. Damn!
This time it’s Faith and she’s come with her secretary and the woman from the grant committee.
“Sweetie,” Faith says after bussing him on the cheek, “We’ve got good news for you.”
He lets the women in and apologizes for the appearance of his apartment.
“What’s wrong with it?” Faith asks. “The place looks fine.” And when Peck looks around, he can see that it does. Everything is in its place. There are no clothes lying around. There are no Chinese food containers dripping soy sauce or oozing lo mein on the tables. “Go freshen up a bit,” Faith says. “Put some water on your face. Mrs. Donner has some things to speak to you about.”
Peck knows what the woman is going to tell him. It’s what he’s been waiting for. He is suddenly wide awake and feeling happier than he has for a long time. He kisses Faith and wraps his arms around her. It’s all her doing. He doesn’t know where he would be without her taking care of his interests.
He notices that behind her, Faith’s secretary Sally is blushing and when they disengage he sees Mrs. Donner blushing also.
“Oh, you two,” she says, “So in love. It’s wonderful to see.”
Talk of love rattles Peck a bit. He never likes to think of the possibility. “I’ve kissed Faith in gratitude many times,” he says. “I’ve kissed Sally once or twice. I’ve kissed the woman in the kitchen many times. I don’t know about love.”
“The woman in the kitchen?” Faith asks, looking a little crestfallen. “Have you got company, Peck?”
“Just an old friend,” he says. “Let me introduce you.”
He walks around the dividing wall and looks in the kitchen, but just as he is about to utter Sheila’s name, he sees she is not there. Everything is spotless. There are no dirty dishes in the sink nor clean ones on the drain-board. Everything is, is… The only word he can think of is justified. He returns to look in the chair but Sheila’s package is not there. Did he dream her visit? The apartment doesn’t look the way he remembers it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I was up so late last night. I guess I fell asleep in a chair and I just woke up when you all arrived. Listen, let me go wash my face and then I’ll put on some coffee and we can talk.”
“I’ll make coffee,” Sally says.
To Peck, Faith says, “Yes, Sweetie, that’s a good idea. Go freshen up. We need to talk.” To Mrs. Donner she says softly, “I’m sorry. He’s been working so hard on his current project. You understand…” and she shrugs her shoulders. Peck doesn’t know just what a diplomat Faith can be. He doesn’t always see the smile with which she wins people’s affection.
Mrs. Donner returns the smile. She does understand. She has dealt with people like Peck several times. She almost always makes good choices and does well during review time. “Oh, you’ve got a treasure there,” she says, “I know the two of you are going to be very happy together. I can see you’re so…so simpatico.”
* * *
Twenty years later, Peck is walking beside the lake on their estate, which is within walking distance of the university where he teaches part-time. He’s enjoying the soft breeze and doesn’t feel cold thanks to the scarf Faith insisted he wrap around his neck. He’s wearing the sweater she likes to see him in also.
On the other side of the lake are the young ones. They used to call them hippies and after that they were Generation X but the alphabet has now been used up. He knows they’re sycophants, but he enjoys having them around and Faith doesn’t seem to mind.
The sleeping bags are spread on the ground though it is almost noon. He quickly calculates the matrix in which they have ordered their positions and sees the outbuilding, the tool shed, as a table header. Late risers they are, and he understands that. Some of his own best work was formulated during those late dreaming hours. He knows there are four or five very bright intellects among the group.
They are loyal and committed. At their own expense, they travel to his conferences and stand in the back and supply the confidence he needs to expound his latest theories. Sometimes, when he draws a blank, he sees the smiling faces and is able to ad lib. A couple of times this has enabled him to come up with something new on the spot. Something with legs that walked on its own.
Keira, the blond with bright eyes, appears to be their leader. It was she who pressed him to let the group camp out on his property, seeing as he had so much, and he wasn’t taken back by her audacity. He readily agreed. People had always helped him when he needed it and he felt the need to give something back. To help young minds develop a better future.
Keira is there on the other side now and she waves to him.
Peck walks around the narrow end of the lake and goes up to her. “Good morning,” he says.
“Well, it’s almost noon,” she says, “But the rest will be getting up in a few minutes. Are you going to give us a class today?”
“I thought we might have a discussion in the library this afternoon, yes,” he says.
A couple crawl out of a sleeping bag and the young man says, “Good morning, sir.” The young woman smiles in a shy fashion and then averts her eyes, and in that aversion Peck realizes the power he has over the group. He can do or say anything and they will take it for truth. The couple walk over to the water and splash their faces.
“Keira, I’ve always wondered, why me, why you?” Peck says, waving his arm in the direction of the young people, more of whom are rising.
“Why you? I think the answer to that is obvious,” she says. “You have a great mathematical mind and we all want to absorb from you.”
He picks up a soiled pair of jeans. The knee-parts are brown with earth. “And you? I mean, why are you their leader?”
“Predestined, I guess,” she says, “My mother was a great fan of yours. When I was little and you began to get notoriety, you were all she talked about. She collected magazine articles and newspaper clippings. She said she met you before you were famous, but that she always knew you would be.”
Peck is looking at the jeans and getting an idea, but he is listening.
“Does she know you’re here now?” he asks.
“Well, she died five years ago when I was fifteen. Heart attack. I’ve lived with relatives until I went to college. Somehow, I always knew I’d come here, though.”
“I see,” Peck says.
“Did she? Know you, I mean. Her name was Sheila Martin.”
Peck remembers a dream he had twenty years earlier; he sees a brown paper-wrapped package sitting on a chair. “Yes,” he says, “Yes, I believe we worked together when we were young.” Suddenly, he realizes he has made all the right choices. Even those that were made for him have turned out well.
Now the rest of the group is awake and folding sleeping bags. Some gather around Peck as if waiting for a revelatory announcement. He takes the soiled jeans and hangs them on a nail in the door of the outbuilding. Giving them a whack, he raises a small cloud of dust and a madness of yellow butterflies flutter out from within the shed. For several moments, the scene is a swirl of blue, red-brown, and yellow.
“You see that?” Peck says. “If you took a picture of that right now and printed just the name Levis below it, you could probably sell another million pairs of jeans.”
A young man with a small digital camera does snap a few shots.
Peck remembers Faith will probably have some lunch ready just about now and will be looking for him to come back to the house.
“See you all this afternoon,” he says, “In the library around three.”
Keira says, “Thank you,” and hesitates. Then, addressing him by name for the first time, says, “Peck, my mom was a great person, and she was right in telling me never to stop learning.”
He walks a little bit until he has passed the small woods. When he is sure the trees are between him and the young ones and he cannot be seen, he raises his arms to shoulder height, flaps them slowly at first, and then gaining force, lifts himself off the ground. He doesn’t want to fly so high that he can be observed, but low, he enjoys the breeze surrounding his form. Butterflies accompany him. A couple of them, lazier than the rest, ride on his flapping scarf.
He has just a little time for a flight before lunch.
Someday, when he’s perfected the method, he intends to show Faith how to fly so they can take off for the clouds together.

We Can Still Be Friends

-So it has come to this, Elaine said. To think we only began dating four months ago.
-All good things have to end, Turner said.
But this stopped being a good thing weeks ago. She was filing her nails and looked up from under hooded eyes.
-Do you want your key back now or can you wait until next week? In any case, you’ll have to wait. I left it in my desk drawer at the office.
-Why’s that? He looked at her hand. Short choppy nails. He couldn’t see the evidence of all her attentions. She smelled nice though. He thought it was lilacs. Real lilacs; not a chemical mix.
-When I was coming over, I would come straight from the gym after work. I just never brought the key home after that last time I went straight to work from your place.
-Why do you think we soured on each other, Turner asked, I mean in that way? Do you think we can still be friends?
-Sure, we can be friends. Hand me that little bottle will you?
How he hated the color she was applying to her nails. It made them look as if she had clawed him with them and the cuticles had filled with blood. He could feel heat and welts along his arms. He rubbed his right arm with his left hand.
A smile played on her lips. -Cold, she asked. -You can turn off the air conditioning. I just turn it on when it feels stuffy in here. Her apartment was crowded with furniture. Much more than a single woman needed. On the radio, Roger Miller sang, -Trailers for sale or rent. Rooms to let, fifty cents. No phone, no food , no pets…
-Do you mind if I smoke, Turner asked.
-I’d rather you didn’t, if you’re going to turn off the air conditioning, Elaine said.
-I’ll leave it on, he said, -I’m not cold anyway. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply then turned his head to one side so as not to exhale the smoke all over her. After that he turned to her to smile and to see if she had appreciated his gesture, but she was preoccupied with painting her pinkie nail.
-So it’s come to this, she said, and held out one finished hand.
He thought she was admiring how the light bounced off her red, red nails. They were very shiny.

When I Was Young

Once, when I was young and immortal, I was cruel and immoral. I walked an endless highway. I was infatuated with what I was capable of doing. It did not bother me to see someone with tears. Well, it didn’t bother me much.
When I was green, I laughed more of the time and saw humor in misfortune because I did not know enough to realize one day misfortune would visit me.
When I erred I denied it. When I succeeded, I gloated. I became bloated with my own complacency. I carried the laurel wreath long after it had dried and withered and revisited my past glory as if it were something fresh and new. I fully expected those around me awaited something from me which was fresh and new and I tried to pass off the stale remnants as such. No one ever accused me of begging for compliments, though if they had, it might have awakened me.
Once, when I was sleeping safely in the past, my tomorrows lacked the urgency I feel in them today.
When tomorrows were countless, I thought I would always have my friends and that I would have acquaintances for almost as long. Now the future feels like a finite possibility and probability lessens. There are days I walk alone.
When the days began to grow shorter, my attention was drawn to jesting matters. I played a waiting game, for there was no necessity to rush to checkmate. There were options aplenty and if none appealed there was the option to create more, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will, but self-fulfillment is a well bound to run dry. The days grew shorter and now I feel the loss of hours, not merely moments. The scales measuring the past against the future have been tipped in favor of the former.
Once, when I did not state these inevitabilities, I believed they could be staved. Now, no longer young, I walk the road I paved.

Sit Right Back

I don’t know what I can do with this story, but I want to get it down before I forget it.
It was a dream.
I was at a party, and I was slouching in a chair, much like the upholstered chair in which I was sleeping and having the dream.
In front of me Cecilia was berating some guy whom she claimed did not have the character to be the godfather to her child. Others were observing, but their visages were indistinct and I could not make out who was there besides Cecilia and myself. I didn’t even know who the spineless character was as he skulked away, as I was trying to remember how Cecilia’s child sounded when s/he spoke, but in my mind that was the reason for the party—the child’s christening. Someone asked who would be the godfather then. Cecilia said something to the effect that she would know who was strong enough when she met him.
Then a loud bell tolled the hour and the lights suddenly went out.
In the darkness, and without rising from my chair, I felt as if I went to her and caressed her and lightly brushed cheeks told me she believed I was the one to be the godfather. No words were spoken. Then the lights returned, and I was still in my chair, and she was standing alone in the middle of the room. “Oh,” she said, as if she too had experienced the connection and was surprised to find no one next to her, but then she walked over to some friends who were discussing the pile of gifts and it seemed she wanted their help in deciding whether to return them or just hold them aside until the day the christening should occur.
All this time the child was nowhere in sight, and the spineless character had by now disappeared.
In the chair, down beside the cushion, I discovered a huge roll of bills, and thought to myself it was foolish that Cecilia should hide her money in that way with a house full of people, anyone of whom might have found and kept the money. They were pesos. Momentarily, I thought of pocketing the money myself, but then stuffed it back down, deeper into the chair.
I went over to tell her she shouldn’t keep her money there like that, and as I walked toward her, it seemed her face radiated an understanding that I was the person who’d come to her in the dark, and that she thought I was now going to confess to my action, but as I stumbled on a step, she shook the expression from her face, as if to say, “No, it couldn’t have been he. He’s such an awkward type.”
As I was telling her about the money, and she thanked me for my honesty, the scene shifted. The camera of my dream point of view panned and went through the window and out into the night, over the town, to a clock tower, where there stood a life-sized stone figure of a French peasant about to hammer down on a bell to strike the hour. As he did so, the strains of the show’s theme-song rose, “Gilligan’s Island-like” “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale…” The stone figure slammed down his hammer. The bell resounded, and he turned toward us, face front, and he was now alive. This was obviously a show wherein the hero was a statue that came to life to do good deeds.
Now in my head, though I was no longer in the scene, I knew the money would go missing, and the statue/hero would resolve the issue during the upcoming episode.
Then a street noise awakened me and I saw it was already six o’clock, and I was reminded how I had begged off going to Cecilia’s birthday dinner in San Cristóbal because my finances were so bad this week, but instead of finishing up the work I had planned to do, I had slept away the afternoon in a chair.