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CO NT EN T S COVER
Poetry
FABIO SASSI “SMOGGING”
Natalie Crick “Ocean Voice” “Untitled” “Embrace”
Prose Paula Paige “DaDDY”...................................................................9
25 26 27
Gabriella Garofalo
“Blue Roamings”
28
Elias Andreopoulos
“Mulin’ Phyllis”........................................14
Steven Slavin “Honor Thy Father and Mother”.....18
Editor’s Note About Us Submission Guidlines Bios and Credits
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UFM SEPTMBER 2017, Issue 29
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UMBRELLA FACTORY WORKERS Editor-In-Chief
Anthony ILacqua Copy Editor
Janice Ilacqua Art Director
Jana BrAMWELL
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Umbrella Factory isn’t just a magazine, it’s a community project that includes writers, readers, poets, essayists, filmmakers and anyone doing something especially cool. The scope is rather large but rather simple. We want to establish a community--virtual and actual--where great readers and writers and artists can come together and do their thing, whatever that thing may be. Maybe our Mission Statement says it best: We are a small press determined to connect well-developed readers to intelligent writers and poets through virtual means, printed journals, and books. We believe in making an honest living providing the best writers and poets a forum for their work. We love what we have here and we want you to love it equally as much. That’s why we need your writing, your participation, your involvement and your enthusiasm. We need your voice. Tell everyone you know. Tell everyone who’s interested, everyone who’s not interested, tell your parents and your kids, your students and your teachers. Tell them the Umbrella Factory is open for business. Subscribe. Comment. Submit. Tell everyone you know. Stay dry
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hello there UFM editor’s letter - June 2017 Hello and welcome to Issue 29 of Umbrella Factory Magazine. I get these strange notions sometimes, as I suppose we all do. I sometimes wonder if everyone is thinking the same things at the same time. It’s like, do we all feel resolved about cosmic events at very next moment from when we think about them? Do we think about them at the same time? I suppose the really question is, as writers, do we write about the same things at the same time? This makes no sense, of course. But what I have found from time to time is that we will get a whole group of submission that share, if not the exact same, but similar themes. To further that, consider when we publish, the 15 of the month in March, June, September and December. Just looking at our schedule, we publish the week that the seasons change from spring, summer, fall and winter. So, perhaps it is not an over exaggeration that writers may think about things thematically, but we get inspiration from the seasons? It makes me wonder about that since I believe that modern man spends more time inside than out. Perhaps we are in tuned to the season internally. Be that as it may, I often see cycles in our submissions and it has always baffles me. Fiction this issue from Elias Andreopoulos, Paula Paige and Steven Slavin. Whereas Paula Paige’s “Daddy” and Steven Slavin’s “Honor Thy Father and Mother,” have elements of childhood and emerging from childhood; the Phyllis character in Elias Andreopoulos’s “Mulin’ Phyllis” feels innocently childlike despite her advanced age. We enjoyed these three short stories and we hope you’ll enjoy them too. New poetry from Natalie Crick and Gabriella Garofalo. “Ocean Voice” by Natalie Crick is an especial favorite of mine. “Blue Roamings” by Gabriella Garofalo, well, can only be explained as poet’s beautiful expression in a language not her first. What a world we’d live in if we composed such words in our second language. “Smogging” by our long time contributor and good friend Fabio Sassi is the cover image. Well see you all is December. Read. Submit. Tell everyone you know. Stay Dry.
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submissions
Submission Guidelines:
Yes, we respond to all submissions. The turn-around takes about three to six weeks. Be patient. We are hardworking people who will get back to you. On the first page please include: your name, address, phone number and email. Your work has to be previously unpublished. We encourage you to submit your piece everywhere, but please notify Umbrella Factory if your piece gets published elsewhere. We accept submissions online at www.umbrellafactorymagazine.com
ART / PHOTOGRAPHY
POETRY
Accepting submissions for the next cover of Umbrella Factory Magazine. We would like to incorporate images with the theme of umbrellas, factories and/or workers. Feel free to use one or all of these concepts. Image size should be 980x700 pixels, .jpeg or .gif file format. Provide a place for the magazine title at the top and article links.
We accept submissions of three (no more and no less) poems. Please submit only previously unpublished work.
We also accept small portfolios of photography and digitally rendered artwork. We accept six pieces (no more and no less)
We do not accept multiple submissions; please wait to hear back from us regarding your initial submission before sending another. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but please withdraw your piece immediately if it is accepted elsewhere. All poetry submissions must be accompanied by a cover letter that includes a two to four sentence bio in the third person. This bio will be used if we accept your work for publication.
SUBMIT YOUR WORK ONLINE AT WWW.UMBRELLAFACTORYMAGAZINE.COM 6/
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NONFICTION Let’s just say nonfiction is a piece of expository writing based in fact. Further definitions are as follows: piece-a work with a beginning, a middle and an end. Expository writing-writing with a purpose such as, but not limited to, explanation, definition, information, description of a subject to the extent that a reader will understand and feel something. Think about the cave paintings of 30,000 years ago, they tell a story. And for the modern man, a good film documentary conveys its purpose. A film about Andy Warhol and his friends who liked to drink and smoke and screw is interesting. A film about how I felt at age ten and watching the adults in my life drink and smoke and screw is not a good idea.
FICTION Sized between 1,000 and 5,000 words. Any writer wishing to submit fiction in an excess of 5,000 words, please query first. Please double space. We do not accept multiple submissions, please wait for a reply before submitting your next piece. In the body of your email please include: a short bio—who you are, what you do, hope to be. Include any great life revelations, education and your favorite novel. Your work has to be previously unpublished. We encourage you to submit your piece everywhere, but please withdraw your piece if gets published elsewhere.
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PROSE
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DADDY Paula Paige
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prose I’m the Whale from Tannersville, and I wait tables at the Last Chance Gourmet. You see, it’s the last chance for the New York City chicks to pick up the Brie or St. André if they couldn’t get to Zabar’s before they got up here. They don’t tease me like the kids in high school did, they just give me that poor-thingwhy-don’t-you-go-on-a-diet look, but that don’t bother me none ’cause I know I already lost fifty pounds. Not that I had to. They can’t fire you for being fat, Ma says as she passes me the pork chops and mashed potatoes, and we’ll get the law after them if they try. Saturday was the Harley convention in Tannersville, and it started out just like any other Saturday in the summer, except all these leathered-up dudes with tattoos and their girls with big hair are in the restaurant rubbin’ elbows with the Parks people, makin’ them real nervous, I can see. One guy’s got a gun tucked into his belt, and I can see a blond woman from the Parks scrunch over real tight next to her husband so she don’t have to be too near him. The short guy from New York who bought the house up on Green Hill Road is runnin’ around shootin’ pictures of them all with a movie camera. Maybe he’s a director, who knows? He sort of looks like Woody Allen, but he’s a lot better-lookin’, bald, with nice blue eyes, and he waves at me just like I was an old friend. “What can I get you?” I say to a group of Parks people, who are so City. A skinny lady with blond, frosted hair and shoulder blades that look as though they’d cut meat gives me that pityin’ look as she hands me back the menu. “Caesar salad,” she says huffily, as though that’s what I should eat too. The guy next to her scrunches up his forehead at me. “Are those real French fries with the chicken pie?” I stare at him. “Sure. They’re made from real potatoes.” The guy with the beard wants his hamburger rare, and he looks at me suspiciously when I tell him we can’t do that no more. Where’s he been? I wonder as I clean off a table on the way to the kitchen ’cause folks are comin’ in real fast. Disgustin’ plates with gum and partly chewed food that make me
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wish I’d stayed in community college. There’s a twinge in my shoulder as I lift the tray. Just then a couple of creepy dudes come in, one older, with silvery hair and turquoise jewelry, the other young, with a black leather jacket open to show the curly hair on his bare chest. I rest the tray to see what’s gonna happen. They stand there and look around, maybe to see where they can raise the most hell. The place goes quiet. Cassie shows them to a couple places at the bar. The old guy’s about to climb up on a stool, but the young guy shakes his head and sits down at a small table with a skinny, dark-haired girl who’s waitin’ for someone. He gives her a nasty smile, and she draws her chair far away from him and looks scared as hell. Just leave, honey, I think and pick up my tray. Ed drops in from work to say hello. He’s wearin’ his overalls and a greasy baseball cap that says Colonial on it. “Them guys ain’t givin’ you no grief, are they, Connie?” he says as I’m yellin’, “Pot pie and Caesar!” to the kitchen. Ed’s brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail and he looks real tired. His blue overalls are filthy. “No,” I say, “but it’s real nice of you to come ask. What you been doin’ all day?” “Squirmin’ around in the crawlspace under that guy’s house”—he nods at the man who’s shootin’ pictures of the bikers—“tryin’ to sort out his plumbing. Man, what a mess!” We’re squeezed together and I can smell his gum and the baloney sandwich he had for lunch, and that good moldy smell of his denim jacket. I sort of wish he’d lose the beard, but it feels soft against my face. “What time d’you get off?” Ed asks. “Nine.” “I’ll pick you up at your house at ten. Want to go to Slope’s?” “With these bikers around?” “Then we’ll leave.” *** We live in a tumbledown house on the edge of town that we call the Little House on the Prairie. My dad left when I was eight and Carol was a baby. My mom cleans houses for a living. Of course, Carol’s in the shower, it bein’ Saturday night; billows of steam cloud
the hallway. She’s eighteen, just graduated high school, and she’s got a date every weekend night and spends most of her time doin’ her nails and stuff. I knock but she just yells, “In a minute!” So I go back to see Ma in the kitchen. She’s puttin’ away meatloaf. “You eat already?” she asks, her kinky gray hair standin’ out around her head in the heat. She’s got on an old pink shift that’s all wet under the arms. “Sure. I had chicken pot pie.” “You want some blueberry pie?” “You know I can’t have that, Ma.” “I thought maybe… You already lost a lot of weight, you know.” “Almost fifty pounds. And I don’t want to put none of it back on.” “Okay!” Carol yells. She comes out of the bathroom as I walk down the hall, wrapped in a big, pink bath towel, her wet blond hair streamin’ around her shoulders. Her little skinny body drives me nuts. “So who is it tonight?” “Kevin. I hope you’re going to wash your greasy hair.” “Sure am.” “Hope I never have to work in a restaurant.” “I hope you won’t either. Just stay in school. Don’t drop out like me.” “I won’t.” She smiles. “You’re way thinner now, Connie.” “Yeah, only fifty pounds to go.” Fifty pounds! Low-fat this and lite that, no booze, no pie, no fries. But then when I get in the shower and see my droopy stomach, ballooning tits, and fat ass, I know I’ll keep on with my diet. *** Slope’s is mobbed. The parking lot is jammed with Harleys, one with a pink baby seat attached. Inside, the air’s thick with the smell of smoke, sweat, beer, chips, and salsa. The laughin’, yellin’, and rap music make me wince. The place is a weird mixture of bikers and townies, with a few people from the Parks out slummin’ it. “Let’s leave,” I say but Ed says somethin’ about havin’ one beer as he elbows his way to the bar, leaving me crushed up
against a couple of Hell’s Angels types. One’s got a red bandana over his hair. And then when he turns, I see the black leather jacket covered all over with medals and skulls and nothin’ underneath, and the chest hair peekin’ out. It’s the guy from the restaurant, of course. The older guy’s still with him, with his silver hair and mustache, and his eyes about the same pale blue as his denim jacket. There’s somethin’ familiar about him; I can’t stop lookin’ at him. “Hey, Big Girl, wanna do some shots?” says the young one. “What’s your name, honey?” asks Silver Hair. I look toward the bar for Ed, but he’s only just now orderin’ beers. “Think your old man’s gonna come rescue you?” The young one looks at me with that nasty grin on his face. In fact, I see that Ed’s gotten into a conversation with somebody; he’s got no clue what’s goin’ on. The young guy puts his arm around my shoulders; he smells like whiskey and pot. “Let me go!” I say real loud. I don’t think anyone can hear me. All of a sudden the short, bald guy with the movie camera shows up and says, “Let the lady go.” The young guy just laughs, ’cause he’s about twice as big as the bald guy. “Look who’s talkin’.” He lets go of me and shoves the bald guy hard, back against the couple behind him; he hits the lady as he goes down and she starts to scream. Then Mr. Nasty takes off his leather jacket. He has a long green snake tattooed on each arm, runnin’ up one arm and down the other, so that the snake’s forked tongue comes out on his right hand. The bartender is screamin’ at them to go outside to settle it. What happens next is so awesome I can’t believe it. Blue Eyes grabs his friend’s arm and says: “Lay off, Frankie, that’s enough.” Now the smile on the young guy’s face gets nastier than ever. “OK, Grandpa, wanna go outside?” “Sure, Frankie. You gotta learn some manners.” “No,” I say, “if anyone’s gonna fight him, it should be Ed.” But they’re already
pushin’ through the crowd and goin’ outside. Then Ed finally shows up. “You gotta stop them,” I say. “That guy’ll kill him!” But Ed stops to pick up the movie guy, who’s lyin’ there with a gash on his face, still clutchin’ his movie camera. I find a Handiwipe in my purse and clean the blood off his face. By the time I finish and get to the door, old Blue Eyes is comin’ back in alone, lookin’ none the worse for wear. His turquoise necklace is a little askew, and he’s breathin’ a little hard, but that’s all. “He won’t bother you no more, honey,” he says. “How…?” He grins, shrugs. “King Lam’s Karate, New Orleans.” I start to laugh. “But wasn’t he your friend?” “Weren’t no friend of mine. Just met him this afternoon.” “Won’t he come back?” “Don’t think so. Left him lyin’ there between a couple of bikes.” I go on laughin’, amazed that this guy could lay out someone so young and strong. Ed’s proppin’ up the moviemaker in a chair; then he comes and slaps Blue Eyes on the back. “Thanks, man,” Ed says to him. “What can I get you?” “Bourbon. Jim Beam if they got it.” “Forgot your beer, Connie. I’ll bring it.” So Ed goes back to the bar, and Blue Eyes finds some chairs, and we sit down next to the movie guy, who’s still tryin’ to pull himself together. “Guess I should go to King Lam’s Karate, huh?” he says, smilin’ at us while he’s tryin’ to plug up his bloody nose, which is still drippin’ down onto his shirt. “Thanks a lot, both of you,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.” They both shrug. The movie guy says, “I’m Eric.” Blue Eyes says, “And I’m Pete. Weren’t nothin’.” “Connie.” And then I say: “What kind of movie you makin’, Eric?” because old Pete is lookin’ at me funny.
“It’s a documentary about bikers, and how they come here every August, and what it does to the town.” Ed comes back with the bourbons and beers, and now I remember Eric’s his customer. “It’s his pipes I been workin’ on all day.” So they start talkin’ about Eric’s pipes, about pipes from his spring, and pipes from his well, and I get a little bored and look over at Pete, who’s still lookin’ at me with a funny smile on his face. “Where’re you from?” I start to ask but he interrupts me. “Is your name really Connie?” he asks. I stare into those pale-blue eyes with crinkles around them, and that smile, and then I remember swingin’ high on an inner tube that used to hang from the maple in our front yard. Pete. “Daddy?” “Yep, the same one what left fifteen years ago.” He leans over and tries to give me a bear hug but I pull away. “Get your hands off me! You left us to starve!” He turns his hands palms up and stands lookin’ at me with those eyes that are so much like mine it’s spooky. “Anyhow, you gotta give me some proof,” I say weakly. “You do kinda look like him, though.” He takes a driver’s license out of a greasy old brown billfold. There he is, Peter Benson, State of Louisiana. “And your ma’s name is Alice, and your sister’s is Carol. I’d’ve known you anywhere with them curls and blue eyes.” It’s him. But that makes me mad all over again, him suckin’ up to me like that. “You oughta be ashamed for what you done.” “There’s not a day goes by that I don’t feel bad about that.” He sighs. “Somethin’ just snapped in me after your sister was born. There weren’t no work up here. I kept gettin’ laid off, and one day I thought: Alice would be a damn sight better off without me.” “Well, she wasn’t!” “Where she work now?” “Cleans houses in Elka Park and
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prose Onteora. It’s not fun but the money’s good.” “You married to that guy?” He nods at Ed, who’s still talkin’ with Eric. “No, we’re just goin’ out.” After a moment I say: “I think he’s waitin’ till I lose another fifty pounds.” “You’re not so bad. Better than skinny.” He looks at me with them blue eyes, and I remember him workin’ to carve a puzzle for me out of an old piece of wood when I was about five, and I give up. “What should I call you? I can’t call you Daddy now.” “How about Pete?” He smiles, showin’ some gold fillings. “Let’s have some champagne, to celebrate.” The last time I had champagne, I got real drunk and sick. Maybe it was just cheap champagne, I thought. Well, if I just had a few sips… “It’s got to be real champagne, from France,” I say. And it was real champagne; at least it said France on the bottle. I stay behind while Pete goes outside, and I ask the bartender, just to be sure. He has a gray beard and only one arm, from Vietnam, I think. His name is Wally. I remember seein’ him around town all my life but he don’t remember me. He stops and looks at me in the middle of squirtin’ draft beers. “You watch out for that guy, Miss. I ain’t seen him for a long time now but he’s a bad one. We was in school together. He used to drive the teachers up the wall and was always comin’ on to the girls.” “Oh,” I say. He leans across the counter. “And then…you know what he done? He got married and had a coupla kids so he wouldn’t have to go to Nam with the rest of us toward the end of the war, and after the war ended, he left them.” Right, I think, make that way after the war ended—I wasn’t even born till ’72! “Thanks,” I say and walk outside. Ed and Pete are sittin’ on the steps. Pete pulls the cork and we toast our reunion. Even Eric comes out and says he’ll have some. We keep havin’ to move when people go in and out of the bar,
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so we change to the ground down beside the steps. Pete goes back for another bottle. I know I’m way past a few sips, but I can’t seem to stop. Over us legs are goin’ up and down the stairs, bare girls’ legs and hairy men’s legs in shorts, and all sizes of legs in jeans. Then Eric leaves and Ed puts his arm around me, and after a while Pete does too. He’s tellin’ us all about his adventures travelin’ ’round the country on his Harley and he’s pretty funny. I don’t want to laugh, thinkin’ of us eatin’ potatoes at the end of the month, when the welfare money would run out, but I can’t help it. “…so then I went to Orlando and got a job as a short-order cook in a diner run by this loony lady who’s a Dolly Parton look-alike, wig and big tits and all. And I spent six months makin’ grits and hash and burgers, and I got so covered with grease I thought I’d never get ridda the smell.” “I know how it feels,” I say. “Then, when I couldn’t stand it no more, I quit, and I heard they was hirin’ men for construction in Georgia, on the highways, so I went up there. Good money, buggery red clay soil, but good money! That’s when I’d send some home, you remember that?” “No.” Ma’s always told me she’d never heard from him again. Could there be somethin’ she didn’t tell me? “…but I hurt my back pretty bad, so I moved on down to New Orleans. Got me a job wirin’ lamps in a store on Magazine Street. The Big Easy, I love it. Everything they always tell you you can’t do up here, they do down there. Booze any hour…” “Is that where you live now?” I ask, and he says yes, and starts to tell us about his apartment in an old house on St. Andrew’s Street, and his dog Sally, and his friend Everill, and how the three of them, and sometimes Everill’s girlfriend, Mabel, drive out to Lake Pontchartrain in his old Buick and go fishin’ on Sundays. Somethin’ about fryin’ redfish… All of a sudden I feel real sleepy, and I put my head on Ed’s shoulder. He’s leanin’ back against the concrete stoop, chuggin’ champagne right out of the bottle.
The last thing I remember is us all singin’ “Aye-yi-yi-yi! In China they do it for chili, so let’s sing another verse, that’s worse than the other verse…” *** When I wake up it’s daylight, and I’m in the rusty swing on our front porch, and I feel real logy, with a wicked headache. The birds are singin’ and I’m all over goosebumps. A black bear is amblin’ across the street into our backyard. He stops and looks at me, then goes on about his business. I’m so tired it don’t occur to me to be afraid. I look at my watch: 6:05. Someone has put my purse on the swing beside me with the strap around my wrist. I try to remember what happened last night: the fight, Pete, all that champagne. Those legs goin’ up and down the stairs. New Orleans. Redfish. And then it just jumps up and hits me: something’s wrong. I open my purse and look inside. Then I scream bloody murder. Pretty soon Ma comes runnin’ out with her eyes buggin’. “What on earth are you doin’ out here?” “Didn’t you notice when I didn’t come home last night?” “Thought you’d slept over at Ed’s. You done that before.” “That asshole. He must have let Pete take me home, and he stole most of my pay. Look.” I show her my billfold. “I just got paid for the week, upwards of five hundred dollars with yesterday’s tips, and there’s only a hundred left.” Ma grabs my wrist and stares at me. “Who’s Pete?” “It was Daddy, in town for the Harley Festival.” Ma scrunches up her forehead and shakes her head. She’s wearin’ an old lavender quilted robe, and she has a couple curlers in her gray hair. “Are you sure it was him?” “It was him, all right. Oh, now I get it—he was so smooth, he just conned me. See, his friend tried to hit on me, so they go outside and Pete pretends to knock him out, says he’s learned karate, but how do I know what happened outside? Then he gets me drunk. They
probably go around workin’ this scam on stupid girls everywhere.” Ma frowns. “Why would he take part of the money? Why he didn’t he just take it all?” “What do I know, Ma? Shit, maybe he felt sorry for me. Maybe he gave me a discount ’cause I’m his daughter.” I start to laugh. I feel awful but, all of a sudden, life seems funny. Ma sits down on the swing beside me, and we both laugh together till Connie yells out the window of her room over the porch for us to shut up. Then she bangs down the window, and we just laugh harder than ever. We try to stop when we see Hank the paperboy comin’ along with the Sunday paper, with his sneakers kickin’ up clouds of dust. He’s surprised to see anyone out at this hour on a Sunday morning, and his mouth opens when he sees us laughin’ like hyenas. “Here’s your paper, Mrs. Benson.” He won’t look at us, all embarrassed. When Hank’s gone by, we finally manage to stop laughin’. Ma looks at me and says: “At least he only took your money. Me…” She breaks off but I can finish the sentence. After my dad left, her hair went gray, and she got fat, and she spent a lot of time watchin’ daytime TV. He took the young woman out of her and left her old at twenty-nine (she’s still only forty-seven but she looks about sixty). She’d be breathin’ hard runnin’ after Carol when she was a toddler, but at least she stayed home then. When I was ten and Connie was three, Ma went out to clean houses and left me to take care of Connie. Now Ma’s waitin’ for me to say somethin’. “Yes, honey, I know.” My cell phone rings then, Mariah Carey singin’ “One Sweet Day,” but I don’t answer it. I know it’s Ed with his excuses, how he passed out and just came to and realized I was gone, and how he feels so bad. Men suck, I think, and if it weren’t for one thing, you really could get along without them; that and, oh yeah, babies. For the first time in a long time, I put my arm around Ma and kiss the wrinkles on her forehead. She smells like coffee and bacon, same as yesterday, I suppose. And that’s just fine.
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Mulin’ Phyllis Elias Andreopoulos
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prose Phyllis Jesperson wasn’t sure how much longer she could continue working. It was a thrill—she experienced more adrenaline rushes in her two years of employment than her previous 77, but she was emotionally exasperated. Earl, her husband of 50 years succumbed to cancer four years before, and the long battle drained their financial assets. Social security was her only source of income. Long Island property and school taxes totaled 20k annually, making those payments impossible unless she worked for the wrong people. Phyllis became a mule who carried heroin from Long Island to Canada. She wouldn’t have considered it if she had a family, would have rather been homeless. Drug dealers are vengeful bastards who would maim your grandchildren to make a point. Except her boss Dr. Mona, who was insane, but not in a murderous way. Dr. Mona owned Tuttle Religious Supply, where Phyllis purchased her religious candles. All it took was a declined credit card for Dr. Mona to make the proposal. They were both desperate, so a partnership was struck. Phyllis wanted a cat since childhood. Her parents didn’t allow it and Earl was allergic. After he passed, she took three strays in, and more and more came to take advantage of her hospitality. At any point, there were as many as twenty cats under her care, much to the disdain of her neighbors. The cats were a necessity because she posed as an animal activist who transported cats to a Canadian shelter for adoption. It was the perfect cover to manipulate the border agents, who looked for the exact opposite of her as drug mules. Dr. Mona made the drop. Two million dollars of product, the biggest transport yet. Phyllis thought it was too great of a risk. The high stakes made her more neurotic than usual, but she couldn’t let it show because the border agents preyed on weakness. She loaded four crates into the minivan, each carrying two cats. They were stacked on top of the compartment built into the trunk that held the heroin Dr. Mona carefully packed. It was 10 P.M. and eight hours of driving were ahead of her. It felt three times that, because she stopped
at every rest stop to relieve her overactive bladder. She set out, traveling in the right lane of the highway at the speed limit. There was too much to lose by speeding. She dreamt of being Mark Zuckerberg’s grandmother so she wouldn’t be muling in the night. Self-pitying thoughts like that occupied her mind as she drove. The border crossing approached. The line was average length, about five cars ahead of her. She had been detained for questioning 4 times, all of which on the return, when she was carrying the less incriminating cash. She was never suspected. She had a bad feeling, but couldn’t turn around, because that was grounds for detention. A border agent and his dog walked along the line of stopped cars, on lookout for anything suspicious. Phyllis stared straight. The dog smelled the cats or the heroin, probably both, and began barking at her minivan. The cats meowed loudly and ran about their crates, causing the pandemonium she wanted to distract attention. The border agent, a young man with a moustache, approached the minivan. “I have my cats in there,” she said before he could ask. “The dog is making them crazy!” The border agent smiled, his breath visible in the Canadian cold. “Oh yeah, I took you in a month ago! You should be on your way soon miss.” The border agent pulled his dog away, despite it lunging at the minivan. Phyllis inched closer to the crossing until she reached the booth where sat a middle aged border agent with the name Bourque sewed to his uniform. He was decent looking with brown hair slicked back, showing his cold reddened ears. She gave him her passport, which he examined for longer than a normal agent would. He inspected the minivan, noticing the foggy windows caused by the cats exhaling warm air. “What’s your purpose in Canada?” Bourque asked. “I’m transporting cats for adoption. I do this often, as you see from my passport.” “Why does Canada need America’s strays? We have enough of our own.” Phyllis felt uncomfortable, her heart beating fast and body sweating despite the frigid
temperature. Bourque meant business. “They all get adopted sir.” “There are dozens of cats who never get adopted at the pet store by me. Something doesn’t seem right. Drive up to the gates and park, I’m detaining you for questioning.” She didn’t know whether to plead her case or follow orders. They could remove the cats, and all they would have to do is lift the compartment and the haul would be discovered. There was no way she would convince Bourque to let her go, seemed like he had a vendetta against her. She parked as he followed behind, a focused determination in his eyes visible from the rearview mirror. He waited outside of her minivan as she exited, treating her like an escape threat. Phyllis followed Bourque inside the detention center. Numerous people were being questioned, some looked nervous, most annoyed. A majority were young people, who probably brought pot over the border. She followed him to his cubicle where he sat at his desk and she in the chair next to it. Awards and commendations covered the walls, which was not a good sign for her. Bourque was legit, someone who went the extra mile. “So you’re the cat lady the other agents tell me about. Can you give me the contact information of where you donate the cats?” “They are given to the Fairway Kennel in Magog. My point of contact is the owner, Desmond Otto. I have his cell phone number.” Phyllis took out her address book from her purse, and found Desmond’s number and showed it to Bourque. She was old fashioned, no need to store phone numbers on her cell phone that was only used for emergencies. Bourque dialed the number, not caring that it was the middle of the night. He put on the speakerphone for Phyllis to listen along. “Hello?” Desmond answered, clearly woken from sleep. “Who’s calling at this hour?” “Canada’s border patrol. There’s a woman here named Phyllis Jesperson who claims she donates cats to your shelter.” “Yes she does. Is there a problem?” “Not at the moment.”
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prose “Well I can vouch for her.” “Why are you accepting American cats when Canadian cats are waiting for adoption?” “She brings us high quality cats, ones that are in demand.” If Bourque knew anything about cats and examined Phyllis’ batch, he would know the claim was bogus. “Have a good night.” Bourque hung up the phone and stared at Phyllis like a poker shark to get a read. She stared straight without making eye contact. A minute of this staring continued. “Let me Google his business and if all checks out, you’ll be admitted to further worsen Canada’s stray cat population.” He Googled “Fairway Kennel Magog” and results popped up. Desmond wasn’t stupid, he had a legitimate business to front his real one on the heroin exchange. Bourque cleared his throat. “I’m reading some of the reviews, and Desmond gives away many sick animals. Are any of those sick animals yours?” “Mine are all healthy. But leaving them outside in a cold vehicle may make them sick.” Bourque shook his head dramatically. “There are many complaints about malnourishment, poor living conditions, understaffed. Is this where you want your cats?” “I’ll do an inspection tomorrow if I am so lucky to be admitted into Canada. If it is not satisfactory, my cats are coming back with me.” Bourque pondered his decision for an extended period of time and let out a deep sigh. “I’m going to admit you into Canada. Head to your vehicle.” It seemed he wanted to deny her admittance, but did not have grounds. Phyllis stood up and walked out without looking back. She reached the minivan, where everything was in order. No unwarranted searches. The cats meowed in pleasure when she entered. A deep breath exploded from her mouth. She blasted the heat and drove off, wishing she had avoided Bourque, a miserable bully who punished the vulnerable because he held a position of power. She usually stopped for the bathroom at the first exit over the border, but not this time, her only priority was gaining distance from Bourque.
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*** She reached the Fairway Kennel as dawn rose. The cats voiced their discomfort through prolonged moans that she taught herself to block out. She pitied them for being crammed for such a long duration, and was glad they would be adopted by loving families soon enough. She backed the minivan next to the delivery entrance. She was not skilled at parking in reverse and had hoped Desmond would offer to park for her after seeing her struggle, but he never did. A gentleman is hard to find in the drug trade. She waited as Desmond monitored his cameras to make sure not a soul was in the vicinity, a paranoid who never let sloppiness destroy him. That was why he was so successful. The delivery entrance opened and Desmond approached, which was her cue to exit. He was a short man without an ounce of fat or hair on his body, looked like a strong wind could topple him over. Phyllis always thought him being a drug lord was to compensate for his appearance. She opened the trunk and began unloading the restless cats. Two henchmen, Brutus and Mike, moved the heroin into a locked room with Desmond following behind. Phyllis waited as the men tested product quality to determine if it was worth the two million Dr. Mona requested. Phyllis doubted there would be a discrepancy due to Dr. Mona’s meticulous nature. She wouldn’t know what to do if there was one. They knew she was helpless. They could withhold the money and keep the heroin. But they had a good thing going with Dr. Mona and there was no reason to ruin it. Then again, they had two million reasons to start a war. Phyllis noticed an auburn striped cat staring at her and she petted it through the crate. The little thing grabbed her fingers and licked them. Phyllis rubbed the cat’s neck and stared into its blue eyes. It was not exceptionally cute, one that could struggle to catch the eyes of potential adopters. Phyllis decided to take her home. She named her Valentina, which she would have named her daughter if Earl hadn’t been sterilized in Korea. She took Valentina out of the crate and
held her warm body to her face. An hour passed. Desmond would never be cheated, everything measured to the ounce. She played with Valentina the entire time. The other cats meowed for attention, but she ignored them, afraid to build connections because it would lead to her bringing them all home, which couldn’t happen because it would arouse suspicion at the border. Brutus and Mike exited the room with smiles. It was quite the haul, one whose value could double if cut right. Desmond followed behind, holding a briefcase. “That’s a lot of product, high quality too,” Desmond said. “You’re lucky the border agents are idiots.” “My agent didn’t know why Canada needed any more cats.” “He’s got a point.” “How do you adopt all of mine?” “Adopt? We incinerate them!” Brutus exclaimed. Phyllis was naive to believe a drug lord would do right by her cats when all he cared for was money. They were tools to him. “That was not the agreement Desmond!” Desmond snarled, like she was his slave. “And who are you? You’re a mule, you’re lower than crap!” “Let me take the cats back then!” she pleaded. “What would the border agents say about my business if you bring them back? You’ve been documented sending cats to me!” “Let’s show her how it’s done!” Mike shouted, with gleeful anticipation. Desmond grabbed Phyllis by the neck and led her into a room filled with industrial equipment; large sinks with showerhead faucets, machinery, buzz saws and the most prominent, an incinerator where her cats were going to die. Desmond let go of her and turned it on. Mike and Brutus carried the crates inside, while joking with each other. The upcoming slaughter had no effect on them. Phyllis saw no point of escape and would watch the horror she was responsible for. “Let’s start with the one you’re holding!”
Brutus said and ripped Valentina from her arms. “No!” Phyllis screamed and pulled her back. “Give us problems and we’ll throw you in there with that little crap!” Mike yelled. “You think I care? I’m a 79 year old widow. I don’t have children. If I die, so be it!” She hoped her bluff would work, because she feared justifying her actions to God. Valentina was violently pulled away from her grasp. The force knocked Phyllis down to the floor where her head struck the concrete, lacerating a cut underneath her eyebrow. Valentina wailed in shock. Blood mixed tears flowed from Phyllis’ eyes. She looked towards the door and saw Bourque with his pistol drawn, having witnessed everything. She made eye contact with him, her expressions pleading for help. “Hands up! Right now!” Bourque screamed nervously. His hands trembled and his gun dangerously moved all about. Mike and Brutus reached for their guns. Bourque emptied his pistol, hitting Mike and Brutus in their torsos and Desmond once in each shoulder. Mike and Brutus both got shots off that missed Bourque, who ran to the guns they dropped and kicked them towards Phyllis. Mike and Brutus both moaned weakly and died. They were joined at the hip in life and remained that way in death. Desmond struggled with his wounds that could turn fatal if untreated. Valentina crawled to Phyllis through the havoc and began licking the blood on her face. “You were tailed you old hag!” Desmond yelled in frustration. “Something was wrong with you. That’s why I followed you!” Bourque said, exuding pride in his intuition. “Does anyone know you’re here?” Phyllis asked as she got to her feet. “No, I went on my own,” Bourque replied. Bourque examined the dead bodies as the cats screeched from the commotion. “There’s illegal business
here,” he said and shook his head, looking upset the activity crossed the border under his watch. “I can’t be involved in this. Please let me leave,” Phyllis said as she grabbed one of the guns from the floor. “You were in on this? What was under the cats? Drugs? The dogs went crazy by your car, you’re a mule!” He looked at her and jolted when he saw the gun drawn at him. His hand hesitated to move his pistol on her, but she knew it was out of ammo. He approached her. It would be a matter of seconds before he would take control, ending her freedom and tarnishing her legacy. He swiped at the gun and missed. Blood kept dripping from her face. She pulled the trigger. His hands clutched his stomach where the bullet pierced it. “Why?” Bourque asked as he collapsed. Phyllis dropped the gun in disbelief. She killed a good man. Maybe he was a husband and a father. She stared at the gun, disgusted that it gave her the power to murder without hesitation or premeditation. Phyllis picked up the briefcase and examined the cash. A good man lost his life for it. Money that people did terrible things to get. Daughters who sold their bodies. Sons who begged for pennies. Brothers who stole from sisters. Parents who neglected their children. Mothers who poisoned their unborn babies. Children who slept in the cold to save for another hit. Families who are killed when a high junkie gets behind the wheel. A clerk who gets murdered in a botched robbery. Money that would pay her taxes and grocery bills. To her money was money, didn’t matter where it originated, but this dirty money destroyed people and families. She carried the briefcase to the incinerator and tossed it inside. The pieces of paper turned to ash. She deserved to die for her sins, to be cursed in death. The cats would be fine. Her skin perspired and she began conjuring the courage to make it burn.
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Honor Thy Father and Mother Steven Slavin
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prose 1 Growing up in a Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn during the 1950s, you didn’t have to be religious to know the basic rules. You made at least some effort to keep kosher at home, go to shul on the high holy days, and to not date shiksas (girls who weren’t Jewish). But being a truly observant Jew was a full-time job. In addition to the Ten Commandments, there were hundreds of other rules that needed to be strictly followed. Like nearly all of my friends, I did the bare minimum. David was the first person I knew who was “orthodox.” We met in high school and hung out a lot on Kings Highway, the main shopping drag in the neighborhood. I was surprised that he was willing to eat at Bella Donna’s, which happened to have perhaps the best pizza I had ever tasted. “David, how can you eat here?” “What are you talking about? They have great pizza!” “Yeah, but it isn’t kosher.” “Can you prove to me that it isn’t kosher?” David had gone to a yeshiva for years, and he was clearly trying to use Talmudic logic to prove a point. But there was no way any truly observant Jew would be caught dead in this place. “David, you know and I know that you can’t mix milk and meat.” “Agreed. But you’ve noticed that I don’t order sausage or pepperoni pizza. I have just regular pizza, which has cheese, but no meat.” “True, but the pan that your pizza was baked in must have been used to make a pepperoni or sausage pizza!” “OK, Jerry. Prove that to me.” “Do you agree that about half the pies they bake here contain meat?” “That sounds about right.” “And would you agree that if the pan they used to bake your pizza was ever used to bake a sausage and pepperoni pizza, then the pizza you ate is not kosher?” “OK, for the sake of argument, I’ll accept that.”
“David, would you also agree that the pan in which your pizza was baked had previously been used to bake hundreds of other pies?” “Again, for the sake of argument, yes, I’ll agree.” “Then do you agree that that odds against your slice of pizza being kosher is maybe a thousand to one?” “So?” “So there is virtually no chance that the slice you are now eating is kosher.” “Jerry, everything you said is true. But you still haven’t proven that it’s not kosher. There remains some very small chance that it is kosher. So will you please let me eat in peace?” 2 David and I and a bunch of other guys played ball and hung out together. By the time we were in college, we decided to rent a basement clubhouse to have parties. But we couldn’t find anything in the neighborhood. So when we heard about a place in Coney Island, we decided to take a look at it. Coney Island was not an ideal location. It was a pretty run down area, about five miles from where we lived. One Saturday afternoon, we had made an appointment to see the place. Although it was April, there was a hurricane that day. There were very heavy rains, and our umbrellas were useless. I was surprised that David wanted to go, considering that it was Shabbos, and if you were religious, then you weren’t allowed to ride. But when he said that he planned to walk, I told him he was nuts. Then, when I thought about it, I had to admire him. Despite his rationalization about the kosher pizza, he really did have principles. I called him and said I would walk with him. It took us over two hours, and by the time we got to the clubhouse, all the other guys were there. They laughed when we walked in. We were so soaked that we left puddles wherever we stood. The place was OK, but the neighborhood looked terrible. No girls would come to our parties. And that would be even before they saw the
neighborhood. The landlady seemed very nice, but we had to tell her we couldn’t rent her basement. I still remember her name, Mrs. Wasserman. That’s because in Health Ed we had just learned about the Wasserman test for syphilis. Was that some kind of omen? Perhaps we would soon find out. When it got dark, David and I were able to take a bus and subway home. Shabbos was over, and it had even stopped raining. 3 A week later, six of us went on another quest. Alan had somehow gotten the phone number of a prostitute named Terry. She lived on the Lower East Side, and she and her friend would be happy to provide us with their services. Two of the guys had already been initiated by other prostitutes, and for the rest of us, it would be a learning experience. We met on the Kings Highway subway station platform, and an hour later we were just down the block from our destination. As we walked eastward, the streets looked more and more scuzzy. There were piles of garbage, and hundreds, or maybe thousands of beer cans on the sidewalks of each block. “This looks like a great place to get mugged,” observed Mike. We nodded our heads in agreement. This neighborhood made Coney Island look good. When we got to Terry’s block, we saw a couple of guys sitting on a stoop drinking beer. “Hey, gringos! You like Puerto Ricans?” Chuck called back to them in Spanish, “We love Puerto Ricans!” The guys laughed and lifted their beer cans in salute. “Viva Puerto Rico!” “Viva Puerto Rico!” we shouted back. Then Chuck said to us, “You see, I told you to take Spanish in high school. Those guys don’t know any French.” We called Terry from a candy store. She said to come on up. We decided that we would break up into three pairs. The first pair would go upstairs, the second would wait in the hallway outside the door, and the third would wait in
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prose front of the building. That would lessen the chances of our all getting robbed. And if the two guys downstairs saw the police coming, they could warn the others to clear out. Because Alan and Mike were the only ones with any sexual experience, they got the honor of going first. After they had taken their turns, maybe the prostitutes would think that maybe the rest of us might have some clue as to what we were supposed to do. Bob and I, both utterly inexperienced but eager to learn, would wait five minutes, then go upstairs and wait outside Terry’s door. Chuck and David would wait downstairs, keeping an eye out for the police. As Bob and I climbed the stairs, we could hear people inside their apartments talking, watching television, and living seemingly normal lives. If any of them was at all aware of our illegal—and and perhaps even immoral— mission, no one let on. After climbing four flights, we stood outside Terry’s door. We didn’t have long to wait. Alan came out and Bob and I both asked, “How was it?” “You know. The usual.” Yeah, but what is the usual? Anyway, I would just be part of the assembly line. Maybe Terry—or the other prostitute—wouldn’t notice my profound lack of experience. But now there was something else to worry about. Chuck and David had edged up the stairs. And both had decided that they could not go through with it. This could be a problem. We were a package deal – six of us at five dollars a man. If the two of them backed out, would we still have to pay thirty dollars? Chuck, at least, seemed persuadable. His biggest fear was catching something. Clearly, Mrs. Wasserman had left a strong impression. My argument that syphilis and gonorrhea were easily curable had no discernible impact. So, I appealed to his literary bent. “Chuck, fifty years from now, we’ll be telling this story to our grandchildren. But this
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great adventure will lose some of its luster if we didn’t actually get laid.” “Yeah,” added David. “Think of all the times your grandchildren will ask you to tell them about the time you first got laid.” “I hate to admit this,” I said, “but David actually has a point. Chuck, this could be a great story: The first time you got laid. This sure beats getting it in the back of a car.” I could tell by his expression that Chuck was thinking about this. Then I closed the sale: “Fifty years from now, when you publish your autobiography, we’ll all be there to bear witness to this great event!” I knew I had him when he said, “I was thinking more along the lines of a novel.” Just then, Mike came out of the apartment. When we asked how it was, his answer was about as helpful as Alan’s. Bob was already inside, eager to lose his virginity and I would be next. But then I had an inspiration. I’d let Chuck go ahead of me before he changed his mind. And that would give me more time to work on David. I n the meanwhile, Mike headed down the stairs. All he said was, “I gotta take a leak.” “Why didn’t he go in the apartment?” asked David. “Good question. I mean, he just went to bed with this woman. I guess he was too shy to ask. Go figure.” “Yeah, maybe he was afraid he’d catch something in there.” “That must have been it! Anyway, how come you’re backing out?” “To tell you the truth, Jerry, I was never that in.” “So why the fuck did you come with us?” “I’m not sure. Maybe for the fun of it.” “Well, do you want to get laid or not?” “Trust me, Jerry. I’m as horny as the rest of you.” “But?” “My mother.” “What does your mother have to do with getting laid?” “Well, what will I tell her if she finds
out?” “How is she going to find out? She knows Terry?” “Look, you don’t know my mother. First of all, I don’t want to hurt her. And secondly, she would be on my case for the rest of her life.” “I like your mother, even if she calls me a pascoonie.” “The word is paskudnyak (Yiddish term meaning a revolting, corrupt person). And you know she calls you that with affection.” “Look, David. If you don’t go through with this, you’ll be letting all of us down.” “I understand that, and I am very sorry. And you’re right: I never should have come.” Now he had me feeling bad. “OK, let’s drop it. By the way, what’s taking Mike so long?” I hoped nothing had happened to him. Just then, we heard someone slowly climbing up the stairs. It was Mike. “Hey Mike, your fly’s open.” “Fuck you, David!” “If only,” I thought to myself. 4 Now it was my turn to go inside the apartment. There were three rooms. I sat down at the kitchen table and nodded to the woman sitting across from me. She glanced at me and then went back to filing her nails. She would be the first woman I would ever “do it” with. I later learned that she was not Terry. She would forever be known as “the other one.” They took turns, and now Terry was inside the bedroom with Chuck. I could hear his panting through the door. I saw a balding middle-aged guy sitting in the living room. He was watching a movie on television. It was “Shark River.” He would forever be known as “the pimp.” If any of us were ever on Jeopardy and were asked, “What was ‘the pimp’ watching?” we’d answer without hesitation. Then I heard the panting stop. A minute or two later I heard Chuck saying “Thank you.” Ever the gentleman, he then emerged holding a well filled prophylactic out in front of him. He
smiled proudly. When he got home, he would probably hang it over his bed. Then Terry came out of the bedroom. “How many after you?” “I’m the last.” “I thought there was one more.” “There was.” “He chickened out?” “Yeah.” She shook her head and smiled. I liked her. But now it was my turn with “the other one.” Without a word between us, we walked into the bedroom. She removed her robe and lay down on the bed. I quickly took off my clothes and climbed on top of her. She casually took my penis in her hand and inserted it into her vagina. That was easy! I congratulated myself on my great historic feat and immediately went to work. I was surprised at how smooth everything was going. I was determined not to cum too quickly. She seemed to have other ideas. She wrapped her legs around me and started screaming out in Spanish. Sorry, lady. I took French. But it sounds good! I must be doing something right! I knew I couldn’t hold off cumming for more than another few seconds. Then, as soon as I had shot my load, she began to push me off her. I remembered to place a couple of fingers on my prophylactic and had what might be termed “an orderly withdrawal.” I paid her, thanked her, put on my clothes, and said good night to Terry. “You come back and see us again.” “We will.” As I left, “the pimp” was too engrossed in the movie to say good night.
“I don’t know what I think.” I told Chuck that when we went shopping together, she hondled [Yiddish for haggling over prices] at each store. I think she managed to get away paying less than five bucks for the entire party, including a nice cake she picked up at Netell’s bakery. David’s father looked almost as old as his mother, and also spoke with a thick accent. But while she was kind of bent over, he always held himself erect. David told me that his father had been a world-class gymnast in Germany, who had left soon after Hitler came to power. I began to understand David’s fear of having his mother learn that he had gone to a prostitute. Chuck and I alerted the other guys not to say a word at the party about our little adventure. 6 A few weeks later we managed to find a basement for our clubhouse just down the block from Bob. We would end up staying there for five or six years until we had all moved away, gotten married, or at least entered into serious relationships. David, Bob, and I stayed in touch, but soon after, David fell by the wayside. He had married a woman who grew up in a very troubled family. The few times that I visited, her father would be screaming at the TV, perhaps the only person on the planet who believed that professional wrestling matches were for real. Joannie’s two younger brothers were depressed, and I suspected that her father hit her mother. Joannie might well have married David just to get out of that house. And then one day, maybe ten years after I had last heard from him, there was David’s voice on the phone. We quickly decided to get together for dinner later in the week. He laughed when I suggested an Italian restaurant and said that he loved Italian food. “You’ll see that I’ve gone through some changes.”
5 A couple of weeks later, David’s mother threw him a surprise eighteenth birthday party. I helped her with the shopping. She had a thick European accent and seemed pretty old. When I mentioned this to Chuck he said, “David’s mother looks old because she is old.” “I mean, she looks kind of too old to be 7 his mother.” As we sat talking over dinner, it was as “You think he’s adopted?” if just a few days – and not ten years – had gone
by since we had last seen each other. He told me that he and Joannie had three kids, but their marriage had fallen apart several years ago. This didn’t exactly shock me. Her father had left her mother, somehow hid his money from her, and then disappeared. One of her brothers was living in a mental institution. The other brother, who was also depressed, now lived with Joannie and the kids, managing to help with the childcare while she went back to college to finish her teaching degree. But he waited until dessert to give me the big news. “Jerry, I’m glad you’re sitting down for this. Are you ready?” I was. “Would you believe I’m not even Jewish?” “What?” I screamed. Other customers were looking at us. Our waiter came rushing over. “Gentlemen, is everything alright?” My recovery was excellent. “I’m sorry, but my friend here just gave me some unexpected news. He’s pregnant.” The waiter hurried off and returned with two wine glasses and a bottle and opened it. “Congratulations! Compliments of the house!” He then shook our hands and walked off. I guess our happy news was a first at this restaurant. “David, I think that I would have been no more surprised if you had told me that you were pregnant.” “Let’s drink to that!” We clinked glasses. And then he began his tale. “Soon after the divorce, I got a call from my mother. She wanted me to come to Shabbos dinner that Friday. Oh, and yes, I’ve been riding the subway for years on Shabbos.” “I wish you had been riding the subway way back you know when.” “Yes! It was really nice of you to walk with me through that hurricane.” “Don’t mention it.” “So, when I got home, I asked where my
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prose father was. My mother said he was resting, and that she needed to talk to me. I asked her what about and she said, ‘Your father is dying.’” “Shit! I mean, your father always seemed so strong.” “His health had deteriorated very quickly. And he was almost eighty. On the other hand, my mother, who had never been in great shape, was still hanging in there. And she was three or four years older than he was.” “I am so sorry to hear about your father. I know he loved you so very much.” “Well, why not? I’m his son!” That just didn’t sound right. But I couldn’t figure out why it didn’t. David continued. “So, then I went into my parents’ bedroom. My father looked shrunken. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of months. He motioned for me to sit by the bed.” I waited. David’s eyes were welling up. Then he continued. “David, I need to tell you something. Better it comes from me.” Again I waited. “‘David, you are my son.’ Then he pointed toward the kitchen. But she is not your real mother.’” I was shocked. And then again, maybe I wasn’t. That poor bent-over old woman was too old to be David’s mother. Chuck was right. “She looks old because she is old.” David went on to tell me that his parents had been married for six or eight years when he started seeing an Italian-American woman who lived just a few blocks away. They fell in love. She got pregnant. She wanted him to leave his wife and marry her. But it was complicated. Her family would never accept him, and he didn’t want to abandon his wife. “Who would want her? Who would support her?” The situation was still not fully resolved when David was born. His father took his newborn son directly from the hospital home to his wife. He vowed to her that he would never see the other woman again. And his wife agreed to raise David as her own son. Then his father handed him a piece of
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paper. On it was his birth mother’s name and address. When David returned to the kitchen, his mother told him he was not her son, and that she was not his mother. David didn’t know what to say. She told him to get out and never to come back. When he hesitated, she started screaming at him, “Get out! Get out!” When he called, she hung up on him. A few weeks later he got a call from his parents’ rabbi. His father had passed away that afternoon. The funeral would be tomorrow at the shul across the street from their home. There were only a couple of dozen mourners; his mother was not among them. In fact, he didn’t recognize even one face. He drove alone to the cemetery, and immediately after the burial, he asked the rabbi if he could have a few words with him. The rabbi explained that his mother had been growing quite erratic over the last year or so and definitely needed to move into an assisted living facility. The only problem was money. Would David be able to contribute to her support? “Well, after alimony and child support payments, I can manage about a thousand a month.” “That’s it?” “For now, yes.” “OK, let me see what I can do.” “There’s another thing, rabbi. She refuses to talk to me.” “I’m really not surprised. You know that deep down she has always been a very angry person. But I think that when she reconciles to the loss of her husband and moves into a more suitable living environment, she’ll be happy to see you and her grandchildren.” As David drove home, he felt like a huge load had been removed from his shoulders. He smiled as he thought, “I wonder if the rabbi knew about his birth mother? And that since she wasn’t Jewish, then neither was he.” Under Jewish law, you can be born a Jew only if your birth mother is Jewish.
8 “So, did you ever try to find your birth mother?” “Sort of.” I walked by her home several times, but I never got up the guts to ring the bell. One day, when I stood looking at her house, a pretty young woman walked up to me and asked if I was looking for someone.” “Do you live here?” I asked. “Yes. In fact, I’ve lived here all my life. Have we met before?” “No. I think I’d remember a woman as beautiful as you.” She laughed. “I was just admiring your house. I must have passed here many times when I was a kid. I grew up not far from here.” “I don’t know,” she said. “There’s something familiar about you, like maybe we met in another life.” “You think?” “Yeah. Say, would you like to come in? I’ll show you around. Then, if we decide to sell the house, maybe you’ll be interested.” “Maybe I shouldn’t.” “Don’t worry. I don’t bite.” Then she took him by the hand, and led him inside. “My mom should be home any minute and you can meet her.” As they entered the house, it suddenly dawned on David that this lovely young woman must be his half-sister. She took him from room to room, and he tried to imagine what it would have to like growing up here instead of in that dreary apartment on Ocean Avenue. And having a different mother. “We lived down here. My father died a few years ago.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. He was a real bastard.” “I’m sorry that you had to go through that.” “My grandparents lived upstairs. They lived here almost sixty years. They were like a second set of parents.” “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” “No. Now it’s just me and my mom. I
want you to meet her. I think you’ll really like her.” My, David was thinking. I’m afraid this is moving along way to fast. He had formulated a plan that he would get to know his mother through his half-sister. But what if she was getting a crush on him? If his father and birth mother faced a dilemma thirty years ago, this one could turn out being even more complicated. When his birth mother arrived, she was very surprised to see David. “Maria, how many times have I told you – no boys in the house when I’m not here!” But David caught her wink. “David isn’t a boy, mom! He’s thinking of buying the house.” “Well, it’s not for sale.” Another wink. “But I insist that you stay for dinner. You like Italian?” David laughed. His heritage seemed to be catching up with him. On the other hand, how would the Talmudists have considered his situation? How many laws could he be breaking? He wondered if she recognized him. Perhaps she caught a glimpse of him walking along Kings Highway with his father. Maybe he had sent her photos. And come to think of it, David did look like her daughter. But there was another problem. If his half-sister was attracted to him, when she found out who he was, she might not take it well. Shit! She might never talk to him again. And he would never get to know his mother. He knew he should have been completely upfront as soon as he met her. But he never could deal with actual facts. Like kosher pizza at Bella Donna’s. Or going to a prostitute with no intention of actually “doing it.” And that’s when he decided to give his old friend Jerry a call.
9 Still sitting in the restaurant, David and I ordered dessert and coffee and pondered his predicament. “You’re still single, Jerry?” “More or less.” “Meaning?” “My last girlfriend recently left me.” “Want another girlfriend?” “Don’t tell me….” “Whassa-matta, my sista ain’t good enuff?” “David, you’re only half Italian. And you still sound like you were brought up in a religious Jewish immigrant household. But just to be polite, what does she look like?” He showed me a picture. “She looks like you.” “Is that good or bad?” “That depends on your eye-sight. He reached across the table and gave me a good jab in the ribs. “OK, you think that if I go out with her, you can get her off your back and onto mine.” “Look, if I fix her up with my old friend, whatever idea she had about starting up with me will be nipped in the bud.” “You really have a way with words.” “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” “A very conditional ‘yes.’ Before you say anything about me to your sister, I want you to tell them both the truth about everything.” “You drive a hard bargain, Jerry.” “Only with the goyim.”
charge a lot more than fifteen cents a slice. This time, when we arrived, there was a line extending halfway down the block. The store was said to serve the best pizza in Brooklyn, a claim made by more than a dozen other pizzerias. Vito, the original owner, always excited to see us, has us seated at a special table that is reserved for his original customers. David and I are treated like royalty, but my daughter, Donna, who is four and a half, is given the seat of honor. “Young lady, did you know that this pizzeria is named after you?” “Is that true?” she asks me. “Well honey, let’s see what it says on the menu. You see where I’m pointing?” She nods. “Point to your name.” “There.” “Good. Now can you spell out the word in front of your name?” “B…E…L…L…A.” “Good! Now try to sound it out?” “Bella!” “Excellent! All of us started clapping.” Donna beamed with pride. Then Vito asked her, “Do you know what bella means?” “Pretty?” “Not just pretty! It means beautiful!” “Really?” “Of course! Because you are the most beautiful girl in all of Brooklyn, Bella Donna pizzeria is named after you!” Donna looked up at her mommy. “Is the man telling the truth?” 10 Maria nodded “yes” very emphatically. Six years have passed since then. David Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She had and his three children, Maria, her mother and I never been so happy. have an annual ritual. We go to Bella Donna’s I reached across the table and dabbed my anniversary celebration. The store is about twice wife’s eyes with a tissue. Then she took the tisthe size it was back in the old days – and they sue from me and wiped my eyes.
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POETRY
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Natalie Crick
OCEAN VOICE The night is dying, Morning merely mist. Clouds remains silent About their loss. We cross frontiers So easily that we mistake Heaven for blue sky. My voice was blind, grayed, Unheard, Rolling like a nightingale into song. The ocean still haunts, It’s salt embedded In our skin.
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Natalie Crick
UNTITLED Autumn orchards are hysterical; A scarlet alarm, Where his hands scattered you like seed. We shed our footprints with the thaw. Now boned trees erupt Through frost skins. Clouds pile up like sullen beasts. Our neighbours, locked in yellow houses, Have a shrouded illness: Blood and stone. The night, Evocative of dead leaves, Seethes in torment, Touched by a breeze Without moisture or comfort. Your arms form ribs around me. They keep me.
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EMBRACE You always hated the cold. Each snowflake that falls Has a particular Morality to impart. The tongues of night pass over The leaves fallen into Dampness, rot, Swallowing the dead air. Streetlamps flash over the blackness As candles do, burning inside a body. One slice of moon is buried in cloud Like an eye, our bodies warm with sweat. Your lips glowed like fireflies. How I craved the ecstasy of your kiss, Tasting salt on your neck, The sticky taste it left sour in my mouth. I can’t see your face anymore. We embrace like wild animals, Pine trees stretching through the night, Tall as monsters.
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Gabriella Garofalo
BLUE ROAMINGS Certainly not anaemia, certainly not ethereal The first summer moon, the grass they set ablaze, The memory spreading seeds of wild voices and frozen trees: Let friends, jaded skies lead you To the offspring of clouds and kites Do they still call her life? While a womb-shaking frenzy Wonders why we can’t dwell in a blue twilight In love with Atropos’ threads. And now you stop whining, soul, Yes, now, look at those girls Sporting flowers and pink laces, Look at them girls on a shopping binge: Books and bling No, not stars, I say bling It’s not their fault, mind, if days breathe, You sure men, white lies, hot stuff matter at all? C’mon, don’t kid yourself, Don’t you remember you threw adrenaline to the sky And got a shock so many times? You were a child. Some tips for you: Live colours, keep books bare, No lovers, no delays, careful now: You cut away a chunk of rebel heaven The lunatic fringe, yes? You’ll have to live on new heavens, I’m afraid And they’ll grab you on the fly.
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Debunking a myth isn’t that simple –
No moonlight, no sunlight, just the blue twilight
Why and how the bikini-clad girl
She eagerly awaits, words on a date -
All smiles and glamour
Do they work? How very peculiar,
Finds herself entrapped in grass, yew trees,
Light batters darkness she thinks,
Red velvety curtains?
Chides time to run, then trusts
A sharper mind might give the proper answer -
Even grass and harvests -
Were you a child when death made you blind?
Stop gambling, words,
Dunno, but now you are Oedipus looking for a daughter:
Zero tolerance if she’s kidding,
Don’t fret, those clouds thriving in the white
If blue gets wild and the moon
Look so soothing while children bury their knowledge
Plays for dear life getting rid of breaths:
Like pirates their treasure troves,
Soul has no secrets
While dutiful sons sip whiskey a go-go
When asking light for some slack -
When back from mothers, rest homes -
C’mon, don’t look shy now,
But why are words pulsing against the light,
Grab colours, nightmares,
Don’t you remember the paths mothers bolt
Dash out from heaven and house,
To reject your fathers and distance -
Look, wounded but light your hands move,
Yes, they’ll cheat time if she call ‘em again,
They remind you -
Just fancy, a visit to uncharted lands
Mightier than the gods the womb smites
Where light falls down free -
While you admire the fretful reeds housing water -
Ok, but what happens if clouds in dust blue
No Demeter, no, against Pluto
Shroud the sky and shards of ice trap her -
And his bloody abductions -
Well, maybe you shlep down, maybe mantises
There aren’t many, right?
Or landscapes traipse down -
What a sad shortage of goddesses -
C’mon now, soul, c’mon, dash through the road,
Anyway, if she pops in tip off the sky
Jump the red light, at worst you’ll get stones or caves
To morph into bright orange words
And you, life, do me a favour, will you?
That set ablaze the baskets you weave -
Please do set ablaze
Maybe lovers.
The sepulchre of words she got wrong.
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bios
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Elias Andreopoulos lives in Ohio and does not have any major life revelations, but is hoping to have some soon. His favorite novel is This Side of Brightness.
Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Interpreters House, The Chiron Review, Rust and Moth, Ink in Thirds and The Penwood Review. This year her poem, ‘Sunday School’ was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her first chapbook will be released by Bitterzoet Press this year.
Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue Branches”.
Paula Spurlin Paige is an Adjunct Professor Emerita of Romance Languages and Literatures at Wesleyan University. An
emerging writer, she has recently published short stories online in A Diverse Arts Project and Stirring. Another story, which was first
runner-up for the Red Hen Press Short Story Award in 2015, has just appeared in the 150th anniversary issue of Reed Magazine. An earlier story, set during the flu epidemic of 1918, is forthcoming in Newfound.
Fabio Sassi makes photos and acrylics using tiny objects and what is considered to have no worth by the mainstream. Fabio is also a sometime writer living in Bologna, Italy. His work can be viewed at www.fabiosassi.foliohd.com
A recovering economics professor, Steve Slavin earns a living writing math and economics books. His short story collection, “To the City, with Love,” was recently published.
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STAY DRY. 32 /
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