Berkeley Fiction Review, Volume 34 by Berkeley Fiction Review

b.f.r.

berkeley fiction review

issue 34

Berkeley Fiction Review Issue 34

Cover art by Donna Choi ÂŠ Copyright 2014 by Berkeley Fiction Review The Berkeley Fiction Review is not an official publication of the Associated Students of the University of California, Berkeley English Department. These stories are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect the views of the ASUC or the University of California, Berkeley. The Berkeley Fiction Review is an ASUC-sponsored, undergraduate-run, non-profit publication. http://bfictionreview.wordpress.com Inquiries, correspondence, and submissions should be sent to: berkeleyfictionreview@gmail.com. Printed by Copy World, Berkeley, CA

Published by University of California, Berkeley

Berkeley Fiction Review Issue 34

Published by University of California, Berkeley

Berkeley Fiction Review Foreword

Managing Editors Lisa M. Jenkins

Paige Vehlewald

Assistant Editors Kelsey Nolan

Lauren Cooper

Madison Crystal

AJ Caughey

Jacob Gerstel

Miranda King StephanieThornton

Kseniya Yefimchyk Kate Irwin

Remy Merritt

Wendy Torres

Faculty Advisor Georgina Kleege

Staff Emma Appel Jamie Aylward Irene Cantizano Bescos Ninad Bhat Isabella V. Brzezienski Gardenia Campos Sherry Chen Kelsey Chun Laura Clark Hannah Commans Ricardo Corte Robin Duong Maris Dyer Christopher Eaton Eric Escalante Savanna Hall Hannah Harrington Jessica Helmstetter Harry Heng

Amber Hundley Hannah Jensvold Lia Johnson Michelaina Johnson Liza-Marie Kaddis Rachel Kim Woo Jung Ko Valerie Law Sharleen Lee Ryan Light Chelsea Low Kelvin Mak Dhruv Malik Karen McLaughlin Karim Merchant Bryan Nashed Marjorie Paronable Nina Potepan Aiyana Powell

Monique Ramirez Kate Ready Anabelle Roeser Lauren Roger Ben Rowen Gabriela Ruiz-Leonard Patrick Sanchez Holly Secon Patricia Serpa Eleanor Stein Sarah Stinson Maxwell TaylorVanderwarker

Candita Darling Wager Ryan Warner Joseph Wilson Tyler Worrell Lisa Zhang Khamillah Zimmer Madeline Zimring

Dear readers, It is with great enthusiasm that we welcome you to read issue 34 of the Berkeley Fiction Review. Each year, without our planning it, a theme tying together our selected stories begins to emerge. This year’s issue, as captured by our cover image by Donna Choi, focuses largely on the complexity of the human mind and human interaction. For this year’s writers, the mind is a malleable tool, prone to evolving as its environment does. Many of the stories focus of the mind in the context of communication, but several rely instead upon an understanding on the mind as a solitary entity. One story in particular, “Unfrozen,” describes the experience of being trapped inside one’s own mind, without the outlet of communication with others or even of physical movement. Several others, such as “Samarra,” “Decision Making,” and “Buzzard Lagoon,” take a different approach, discussing instead the impact of drugs and alcohol on the human mind, and the consequences of their use. In each of these, the authors provide a different perspective on the resonance of the mental experience, giving the reader a lens through which to view another’s mind. Another crucial aspect of the human mental experience is the way we interact with others. Our opening story, “Correspondence,” provides a humorous look at the breakdown of communication between a family and their landlord. Both “Encoded” and “Your Name Is Jane” take a more serious approach to human (and pseudo-human) interaction, providing a disturbing view of the dystopian attempt to catalogue and control the mind and body. Overall, this year’s collection invites the reader to abandon his or her own mind and step into the experiences of others, and our many talented authors make it easy and enjoyable to do so. Although the work of our authors and artists is inspiring on its own, the dedication of our staff and editors is what has really made this unique collection possible. Creating a yearly issue is a big task, but it is one we love doing. We hope you enjoy the experience of reading issue 34 as much as we have.

Sincerely, Lisa M. Jenkins

Paige Vehlewald

Berkeley Fiction Review Foreword

Managing Editors Lisa M. Jenkins

Paige Vehlewald

Assistant Editors Kelsey Nolan

Lauren Cooper

Madison Crystal

AJ Caughey

Jacob Gerstel

Miranda King StephanieThornton

Kseniya Yefimchyk Kate Irwin

Remy Merritt

Wendy Torres

Faculty Advisor Georgina Kleege

Monique Ramirez Kate Ready Anabelle Roeser Lauren Roger Ben Rowen Gabriela Ruiz-Leonard Patrick Sanchez Holly Secon Patricia Serpa Eleanor Stein Sarah Stinson Maxwell TaylorVanderwarker

Candita Darling Wager Ryan Warner Joseph Wilson Tyler Worrell Lisa Zhang Khamillah Zimmer Madeline Zimring

Sincerely, Lisa M. Jenkins

Paige Vehlewald

Contents Siam Donna Choi

Cover

Car Miranda King

Correspondence Louie Centanni

Needle Jessica Zheng Encoded Kate Irwin

The Collecting Place R.M. Cooper First Place Sudden Fiction

Troll Lauren Cooper

Cactus Jack David Calbert

Peach Jessica Zheng The Jury Man Wendy Herlich

Heart Jessica Zheng

The Long Note C.B. Heinemann

Performance Review James Huntley

111

Your Name is Jane John Nomis

112

Curious C.E. Hyun

121

Milo Kate Irwin

122

Nascere Sam Lubicz

133

Dementia Z.Z. Boone

134

Decision Making Jacob Gerstel Third Place Sudden Fiction

148

Josephine Lisa Jenkins

152

Unfrozen Adam Matson

153

Untitled Donna Choi

167

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be Back James Bell

168

Moon Jessica Zheng

181

Buzzard Lagoon Reid Maruyama

182

Notes on Contributors

195

Sidewalk Ends Jessica Zheng

Not Today Madison Crystal

Vice 3 Adam Crystal

Samarra Condict Moore

Epis(ode) to Club Soda Michelle Kicherer Second Place Sudden Fiction

Contents Siam Donna Choi

Cover

Car Miranda King

Correspondence Louie Centanni

Needle Jessica Zheng Encoded Kate Irwin

The Collecting Place R.M. Cooper First Place Sudden Fiction

Troll Lauren Cooper

Cactus Jack David Calbert

Peach Jessica Zheng The Jury Man Wendy Herlich

Heart Jessica Zheng

The Long Note C.B. Heinemann

Performance Review James Huntley

111

Your Name is Jane John Nomis

112

Curious C.E. Hyun

121

Milo Kate Irwin

122

Nascere Sam Lubicz

133

Dementia Z.Z. Boone

134

Decision Making Jacob Gerstel Third Place Sudden Fiction

148

Josephine Lisa Jenkins

152

Unfrozen Adam Matson

153

Untitled Donna Choi

167

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be Back James Bell

168

Moon Jessica Zheng

181

Buzzard Lagoon Reid Maruyama

182

Notes on Contributors

195

Sidewalk Ends Jessica Zheng

Not Today Madison Crystal

Vice 3 Adam Crystal

Samarra Condict Moore

Epis(ode) to Club Soda Michelle Kicherer Second Place Sudden Fiction

Correspondence LOUIE CENTANNI

*inspired by events that were all too real for A. White *** June 1 Dear Mr. Noble, First and foremost, I would like to thank you for the 177th time for your benevolence and compassion in providing my family shelter at an affordable rate during a difficult time in our lives. Without your charity, we should find ourselves most certainly nomadic, at best. Your selflessness will certainly be rewarded in the distant future, be it by karma or by salvation. I sincerely apologize for disturbing you with matters directly related to your responsibilities as my landlord, but I noticed a few unfortunate leaks in the roof during the most recent rainstorm. I would be more than willing to take care of the issue myself if you so desire; I simply want to maintain appropriate communication regarding the upkeep of your wonderful fourth house. Most sincerely, Paul Scant *** 8

Miranda King

Berkeley Fiction Review

Correspondence LOUIE CENTANNI

Miranda King

Berkeley Fiction Review

June 2

Dear Paul,

I appreciate your apprehensions regarding the maintenance of my fourth house; however, I assure you that the sun is not expected to burn out until the distant, distant future. Eons should pass long before the aforementioned aperture becomes a continuous issue.

Regarding the aforementioned roof fissures: your inconveniences will cease by virtue of the same forces that you so kindly believe will one day reward my good deeds. By this, of course, I mean that once the universe allows the sun to shine again, your troubles will dry up. Continue to wait for the precipitation to desist or, at the very least, use duct tape until your lease ends on July 31st. Best, Aidan Noble

Regarding the renewal of our lease agreement: I would like to begin by congratulating you on your latest career decision. I hope you find happiness in your professional endeavors. Sadly, I will be unable to renew your status as tenant of my fourth house for reasons of financial hardship. Good luck finding a new place to lay your head; your family sounds truly lovely.

***

Best,

June 4

Aidan Noble III

Dear Kind Mr. Noble, Thank you for your quick correspondence. I have no doubt that the sun will come to my assistance in the eventual; however, it is my understanding that all permanent home improvements should be approved and handled by the owner. Should the sun not return, God forbid, I do believe this leak will provide most unfortunate living conditions for my three children and wife. Additionally, your comment regarding the end of my lease reminds me: I have just signed my letter of intent to return to my humble teaching job for the coming school year. At your convenience, I would like to discuss the renewal of our lease agreement. God Bless and, again, thank you for everything. Yours truly, Paul Scant ***

June 6 Dear Mr. Noble, Many thanks for the congratulations on my career choice. I do feel that my chosen profession, though not providing a hefty compensation, is helping me to find joy in life. Shaping the lives of our future generations is a bittersweet responsibility that I feel is necessary to our survival as a society. I imagine that folks at your corporate board meetings discuss this frequently. That said, I do feel it may be hard to fulfill my occupational obligations without appropriate living means. Shelter would seem to be a necessary condition for a dignified life in education as the homeless tend to be trivialized by the masses. I do sympathize with your financial circumstances, as the economy is currently a tragic mess; however, perhaps we can meet to discuss some sort of compromise. How does next week sound? Respectfully,

June 5 10

***

Louie Centanni

Berkeley Fiction Review

June 2

Dear Paul,

***

Best,

June 4

Aidan Noble III

June 5 10

***

Louie Centanni

Berkeley Fiction Review

Paul Scant

Dear Mr. Noble, ***

I hope your vacation was truly fulfilling. As my lease nears its end, my family and I have become eager to secure our future. I have located a smaller, comparably priced apartment as a possibility for relocation; however, my desire is that some sort of middle ground is reached before it comes to such measures.

June 9 Paul, Regarding your request to meet: I would love to sit down for a brief meeting to discuss your relocation from my fourth house. I am aware of the difficulties that come with moving a family, so the sooner we chat the better. My family is taking an extended vacation in Europe beginning this Sunday. We will be gone for two weeks touring France, Italy, and Spain. I will try to find a postcard in one of those marvelous countries to send to you and your lovely family. Best,

Paul Scant *** July 4 Dear Mr. Noble, I would like to wish your family a happy Fourth of July! I imagine you will be spending much-needed family time together, considering the economic distress with which you have been dealing.

Mr. Aidan Noble III *** June 10

I was wondering if you have been receiving my recent letters. I am anxious to meet with you soon.

Dear Mr. Noble, I thank you immensely for agreeing to meet within the next month. Do have a marvelous stay in Europe; I hear this time of year is lovely. What with the financial stress your family is undergoing, I hope that you find this extended sojourn a relaxing getaway from your woes. Who knew my initial correspondence would be such a blessing, seeing as the knowledge of my imminent eviction would have indefinitely remained a complete mystery to my family and me. Patiently awaiting, Paul Scant *** June 30 12

Contact me,

Louie Centanni

Thanks, Paul Scant *** July 9 Dear Mr. Scant, Many thanks for the Independence Day wishes! I hope your family found peace and plenty on that day. I apologize for the lack of correspondence. My family had no idea just how lovely Italy was going to be, so we decided to extend our stay an extra three days. Once we got to France, the same thing happened! Before we knew it, our vacation went from two weeks to four! The airline fees were not too high to make the necessary itinerary adjustments, so we only slightly surpassed our expected expenses. Berkeley Fiction Review

Paul Scant

Dear Mr. Noble, ***

Mr. Aidan Noble III *** June 10

I was wondering if you have been receiving my recent letters. I am anxious to meet with you soon.

Contact me,

Louie Centanni

Re: our meeting. Let’s meet next week. I would like to answer any of your queries before the 31st, when your family needs to be out. Good luck packing and, if possible, please leave the place empty as can be. Ideally, it should look as though no human has ever set foot indoors before the new tenants arrive. They will greatly appreciate this. Best, Mr. Aidan Dominic Noble III

our financial problems and leave my car in worse shape than your family’s trampled aspirations. I am very sorry for the way our agreement has fallen apart. Though we were both under the impression that your family’s status as tenant would last into the indefinite future, an erratic economy has coerced us to seek market value for our fourth property. If it weren’t for our other three houses, we probably would have had to sell one of our eight automobiles! Thank God. I’m sure your family will recover, especially after hearing the story of your motivated son. What a wonderful boy you’ve raised! Feel free to contact me with any other concerns.

*** July 15

Best,

Dear Mr. Noble, Thanks for meeting to hear my desperate pleas. Though the country club pool was loud and far from ideal for a discussion of such emotional magnitude, I do feel that we made the most of our ten minutes together. I understand that you are a busy person, so do not feel rueful for scheduling an oil change in such close proximity to the meeting that sealed the fate of my family’s crushed hopes and dreams. We will do our best to leave the house in mint condition; however, it may be difficult to achieve your standards without my thirteen year-old son, who recently got a job to help us pay the deposit on our new abode. He even made extra money for working on the Fourth! Our family missed him, but it just meant one less stomach to divide the KFC bucket and liter of Tang between. Paul Scant

P.S. On the day of your departure, please leave all house keys on the kitchen counter, as my family is traveling to Costa Rica. We will be back in early August — hopefully without too many sunburns! *** July 31 Dear Mr. Aidan Dominic Noble III, The keys are on the counter; the house is empty. Don’t mind the stench in the living room—it is nothing intentional, merely the natural scent of my family’s deceased and decomposing ambitions. I leave this letter as my farewell. My only wish is that the aforementioned karma you have earned comes back around at some point in your hopelessly miserly life. In an ideal world, continuing to mask your temporary image-boosting deeds as charity would undoubtedly lead you to reap what you sow. Cheers to the status quo.

*** July 16 Dear Mr. Scant, I thank you for your understanding regarding my oil change appointment two days ago. The inconvenience of hearing a low rumble in the engine of my Lexus would only further hinder 14

Dr. Aidan Dominic Noble III

Louie Centanni

With fingers crossed, Paul Scant & Family Berkeley Fiction Review

*** July 15

Best,

Dr. Aidan Dominic Noble III

Louie Centanni

With fingers crossed, Paul Scant & Family Berkeley Fiction Review

Jessica Zheng

a.k.a. The Five Homeless People on the Southwest Corner of your lot *** August 3 Dear Mr. Scant, I hope this letter finds you, as I have chosen to leave it under a rock on the previously indicated street corner. Do not worry yourself over the hideous odor left in the family roomâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;I have hired three different cleaning companies to remove all traces of your familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s existence from my house. Best, Dr. Sir Aidan Dominic Noble III

Louie Centanni

Berkeley Fiction Review

Jessica Zheng

Louie Centanni

Berkeley Fiction Review

single task. Ten pale fingertips slammed into the table’s surface repeatedly as though their movements could be decoded and fully understood. The figure writhed in and out of a hundred thousand different places of mind, bones hitting the solid surface, learning of the anguish of a hundred thousand dead men.

Encoded

Thin tubes stuck out from its flesh like electrified hairs, each connected to the skin and burrowing down to the network of veins.

KATE IRWIN

The chips fell like hundreds of thousands of water droplets cascading from the metal mouth of the mother that made them. They fluttered to the rubber belt and were carried upstream, to take root again deep beneath the flesh of a living organism. A human. A computer chip was withdrawn from an unmarked white box and held up to a giant grey eye. It examined the chip’s golden ridges and valleys carefully, admiring the laser-cut precision. Numbers and letters were read aloud in sequence. The rhythm of the steely male voice nearly lulled the figure lying on the table to sleep. Metal cuffs trapped it, kept the creature there, the remaining life that softly pulsed beneath the fleshy form. Beep. The serial code had been scanned with a bar of red light. Another purchase for the welfare of mankind, the steely voice thought to itself. Click. The chip was encased within an aluminum cylinder. The grey eyes did not waver from their task. A plastic circle was pressed—a power button. The still hands locked to the table twitched to life, fingers bending perpendicular to the polished steel. They had heard the small device whirring, its gears spinning together to perform a 18

Kate Irwin

The smooth metal cylinder was pressed against the left temple. A fresh jolt of fear shuddered through the figure’s nerves, now knotted and tense like a clump of wires. Its eyes were paralyzed, open, fixed upon the blank ceiling. The gun was activated with the utmost precision. A shrill noise filled the silence of the operating room. When it ceased, all ears could still hear the vibrations of the sound. The thing on the table had become just that, a thing, its pure human voice silenced forever. Beneath its layers of cold, sweating skin, the body fought its new invader with all its remaining reserves. The mind struggled with the injected chip, drowning under its influential waves like a child lost at sea. The chip bathed in the tides, its dry, golden ridges and valleys now quenched by an endless sea of blood. When coupled with such excruciating pain, the impulses became insurmountable, irrepressible as the brain struggled to determine whether independence was worth dying for. But the human mind had already been lost. The consciousness had been stripped of its command as the chip’s program took over. It was to analyze, encode, repeat… Analyze, encode, repeat… the lost mind contemplated this from its new posterior position and longed to cry out in despair. But this consciousness no longer reigned over this still body cuffed to the table. Threads had been pulled, and now she lay barely connected to her own self. The mind was tethered and tortured, being forced to adapt to the machine instead of the machine adapting to it. Berkeley Fiction Review

Encoded

Thin tubes stuck out from its flesh like electrified hairs, each connected to the skin and burrowing down to the network of veins.

KATE IRWIN

Kate Irwin

Beyond the confines of the dying mind, a needle was withdrawn from a sterile drawer. “When faced with change, one must change. Adapt. Assimilate. The laws of nature require it.” “This…this is not natural,” the second voice protested weakly. The needle was threaded. “Oh, but it is,” the man replied, his mouth covered by a white surgeon’s mask. “The next step in the evolution of man.” The needle pierced the delicate scalp. Helpless screams filled the room as the thread weaved in and out, sealing the chip inside her mind forever. The seam was tight, closing her mind off from the air. She felt suffocated, claustrophobic. It had been done. The man placed his tools down and walked over to a large computer screen. His fingers caressed its thin, sensitive surface and it came to life. Various texts and lights and applications appeared on the screen, and he manipulated his fingertips until he’d found what he’d been looking for. He was entranced by the screen’s resolution, how the computer sifted through its programs so efficiently. He admired its beauty, felt as though it was the most perfect thing ever created. His fingers tapped it gently, lovingly, as he entered a serial code. The machine was a thing to be revered, venerated, the man thought. It brought the unimaginable to his fingertips. The figure on the table lay lost, its mind hovering in a place between life and death. If only I could fully disconnect, it thought. “You feel disoriented,” the surgeon explained, glancing back at her still frame, “because you are not yet fully connected. Once you are encoded, everything will change.” Activate. The final tap against the screen’s glossy skin. Green eyes flashed open. “Welcome,” the steely voice cooed, “to the world.” 20

Kate Irwin

The body and mind were no longer just controlled by the metal implant. No longer were the signals one-sided. The mind had gained access to something both incredibly complex and foreign. Just as the chip had explored the network of bloody veins now the mind probed the golden ridges and valleys of the intricate electronic labyrinth. Mutual violation, discovery. But there was far too much information for the mind to fully understand. Endless facts, formulas, processes, and computer languages flooded its memory bank. It could now hear and sense minds, minds of others who lived in symbiosis with something machine. It could hear thoughts, sense feelings, and all was interconnected. The mind could float from its body as it pleased, travelling through an infinite databank of every feeling ever felt and word ever said. It became lost to sensation, now consumed by each other mind it encountered, sharing its own feelings and memories as it moved. The body hung limp on the table. The mind could not disconnect from this new psychological netherworld. It would forever be subject to the prejudices, emotional fluxes, and bouts of despair of other minds it had never known. Now, her mind meant nothing. It had been reduced to a single cog in the most complex mechanical organism ever made. With the acquisition of the infinite came the unequivocal loss of the self. Salted fluid escaped from the clearest green eyes ever seen. The surgeon felt her pain. Deep in his chest, he ached as she sobbed. He now knew every thought and that something was terribly wrong. He had been encoded and connected for years, but never had he felt such resistance as this. She would not be one to adapt. Little whispered thoughts, weak and barely there, crept into his mind. They were hers, he knew it. Over the years he’d learned to keep the other thoughts out. The encoded cognitive utopia, instigated at government request, had been overwhelming for him at first but he’d learned to hush the mass of floating Berkeley Fiction Review

Kate Irwin

thoughts lingering in the back of his mind. But her thoughts were so dark, so all-consuming that he thought if he lingered for a moment longer he too would fall into the abyss. He withdrew. The surgeon picked up a metal scalpel from the table and opened her clenched fist. He pressed the handle into her palm, and her fingers fluttered closed, gripping the instrument with all remaining strength. He stepped back, away from the table, giving her space. He turned away.

FIRST PLACE SUDDEN FICTION

The Collecting Place R.M. COOPER

“In the face of change,” her little voice began, “one must change, or die.” Blood pooled from her chest, staining the white hospital gown. All was released, and all was forgotten. A latex rubber hand patted the cold, still hand of the figure on the table. The gloves were removed, turned inside out, and quickly discarded before the room was left, as empty and hollow as the pit of his stomach.

Memories surface at random like the tabs of a rolodex spun by a child. Help him sound out the words. Spin. Seven: Your momma’s Uncle Roy fly-fishing the Cumberland, kisses every fish he pulls, grins and tells you it’s spawning season; the trout die for a shot at love. Spin. Seventy-nine: Tell your boy you didn’t forget to take the damn things, but he isn’t listening, watches your hand shake, pills spilling through numb fingers; his eyes—ocher and gold and drained—copies of hers. Eighty-one: Three men in navy scrubs speak gently, hold you firm by the elbows and are turning you round, saying she isn’t at the pharmacist and won’t need picking-up; one calls her your ex-wife, and next you’re pulled back to the room where you can’t ever find your keys. Spin. Twenty-three: Grandfather talking about it for the first time, staring over your shoulder like Benny and Knolls, and the other POWs are somewhere just beyond the china cabinet. Twenty-four: A mountainside cloudburst, the old Ford broken down, a soaked, bended knee—you’re making your dream girl repeat herself in your good ear: yes, yes, yes. Spin. Eleven: First goatburger. Eleven: Last goatburger. Twelve: You and your cousin Nate squirrel hunting the dry creek beds of Mingo county; promise a pellet for each other’s little toes on the count of three so neither of you end up in Korea like Nate’s brother George; shoes off—one—two—you pull early and Nate

Kate Irwin

Berkeley Fiction Review

FIRST PLACE SUDDEN FICTION

The Collecting Place R.M. COOPER

Kate Irwin

Berkeley Fiction Review

won’t quiet.

a thought worth having but that hair and the sun.

Spin. Thirty-six: You aren’t supposed to have favorites, but when your daughter looks up at you with your own eyes, so new her skin sticks and her hair smells like nothing, you know you’ll lie to your boy for a lifetime. Thirty-seven: Never seen a coffin so small, like it’s a porcelain doll you’re putting into the earth; took a doll-funeral and thirty years for Pop to talk about Momma. Thirty-eight: For better, for worse; worse. Thirty-nine: Pay someone to pretend to be your dream girl; tell her to only whisper in your bad ear.

Spin. Four: December night, cold rain, the smell of kerosene, the neighbor’s windows reflecting yellow-orange and bright as the old barn burns out back; blood runs down your cheek where Pop smacked your ear—first memory. Five: Momma coughing into a handkerchief like wet rust; Pop yelling at Doc Brown. Six: Catching fireflies with Mary Thompson, drop the jar when she plants a kiss on your cheek, shatters; and a swarm rises from the concrete, glows and drifts across the fresh tilled earth to collect in the place where all things too small to be cut by glass go.

Spin. Ninety-three: Carrying baseball mitts through the Mingo creeks, fingers too small to stretch into their slots so that when you smack the leather, it’s like hitting someone else’s hand, a giant’s, feels how a crawdaddy must in a new shell with room to grow; the man with the comb- over is nodding and writing something on the clipboard outside your door.

Spin. Spin. Spin... just a boy laughing.

Spin. Thirteen: The chirp of morning birds and the whir of grasshoppers and the wind bustling over two hundred acres of wheat, and then a voiceless quiet, an enormous silence settles over you and the land with the dead-weight of rain-soaked cotton; something like God talking. Fourteen: You and Nate and a pack of Camels he lifted, and you’re watching the smoke pool between the barn rafters, and he’s saying he’ll quit Mingo first chance he gets, would run away if he could, that staying put seems to him a lot like dying or never being born (he can’t decide which); he says it all hushed, as if leaving the county were a secret, but he’s talking to your bad ear, and his voice is lost along with the smoke somewhere up in the rafters. Spin. Sixty-two: Hold up your hand, and the Doc stops talking; ask him why he talks so slow if you won’t remember any of it. Sixty-four: November in the Cumberland; your son is pulling you out of the water and is cussing and you’re screaming at him not to forget Roy in there. Spin. Sixteen: The clattering approach of bicycle spokes, June sunshine filtering through the gold hair of Brenda Ellis and the red of Christine Collins as they roll past; stare where they round the corner and disappear, keep staring like there was never 24

R.M. Cooper

Berkeley Fiction Review

won’t quiet.

a thought worth having but that hair and the sun.

Spin. Spin. Spin... just a boy laughing.

R.M. Cooper

Berkeley Fiction Review

Cactus Jack DAVID CALBERT

It was just after winter when the dead animals started appearing around our house. My parents thought it was a coyote coming out of the desert in search of easy game. We lived outside of Phoenix, the last house before the wilderness, and we encountered all kinds of desert life. My older brother Brandon kept a terrarium in his closet that was home to a family of scorpions. He exchanged the light bulb in his closet for a black light so he could watch their electric glow. When he fed them crickets at night, the scuttling lights would converge like a cluster of tiny will-o-the-wisps. The first dead animal was an owl. I found it lying a few feet from our doorstep one morning when I left for school. Something had hollowed out the feathery cadaver and left little else except a few strips of tissue. The owl froze during the night and its talons, clutching at the air with the stiffness of rigor mortis, were coated in white frost. Brandon followed me outside and said, “whoa.” We both had backpacks slung over our shoulders. Mine had ninja turtles on it, but Brandon’s was just a black canvas satchel. While we waited for our father to come outside and drive us to school, we examined the fowl’s remains. Brandon nudged it with his sneaker, causing it to roll back and forth. I didn’t touch it. “Must’a hit the window and been eaten by a coyote,” Brandon said. We regarded the theory as sound until two days later when the assumed culprit turned up in our mother’s garden, 26

Lauren Cooper

Berkeley Fiction Review

Cactus Jack DAVID CALBERT

Lauren Cooper

Berkeley Fiction Review

emptied out just like its feathered predecessors. The lower jaw was gnawed off, giving the coyote an eerie grin. “You want its foot for good luck?” Brandon asked as we stood in the shade of an acacia tree, looking at the disassembled carcass. Brandon liked to try and upset me whenever he could. “That’s rabbit feet, dumbass,” I said. He tried to shove me into the bloody remains and I ran back into the house to tell our mom. One night, before bed, my brother told me that the culprit behind the dead animals was Cactus Jack. “Who’s Cactus Jack?” I asked, no longer paying attention to the television. We’d turned it on to drown out the sounds of our parents fighting in the other room. Brandon was lying on the couch and I was sitting on the carpet with my back to him, knees pulled up to my chest. Brandon’s voice drifted down to me. “He’s the ghost of an old pioneer. He was traveling across the desert with his family in a big wagon. He had a wife and three little boys. They sat next to him as they rode, one, two, three, in a row.” Brandon tapped the top of my head three times, tap tap tap. “One night, a group of Indians attacked and killed them all with spears, just skewered them like you do to a worm with a fishhook. They killed everyone except for Jack, and set his wagon on fire. They made him watch, and he went crazy.” “Indians don’t do that,” I said. “Yeah huh, they used to,” Brandon said, knowingly, from the couch. I tried to contradict him, but he went on anyway. “He was in the middle of nowhere, and he started to get real hungry. But all his food burned up in the wagon. So he ate the bodies of his children, just gobbled them up, one, two, three.” Again, Brandon tapped my head three times. I was afraid to turn around and look at him; I just watched the TV without seeing it. “What happened next?” I asked, trying to hide the tremble in my voice. 28

David Calbert

“Another family of pioneers found him a few days later, and when they found out what he did, they killed him. But they didn’t just shoot him, no, they dragged him kicking and screaming, his mouth all bloody, to the nearest cactus. They made him eat the pricklers until he died. They plucked them off one by one and made him eat until he died.” Brandon paused for a moment to let it sink in. He knew I was a captive audience, even when I didn’t want to be. I almost turned around to see if he was done, but he continued. “And his ghost still wanders the desert with a belly full of pricklers. But he’s still hungry and he never forgot how good little kids taste. Especially ones that are afraid of scorpions and rattlesnakes.” He pinched my shoulder, hard. “And all he’s got are owls and coyotes to munch on. But one night, he might find our house and eat you up.” With Brandon’s story finished, the sounds of the television and my parents’ war settled over both of us like a heavy quilt. It wasn’t long before my mother, red in the face, came in and told us to go to bed. A few weeks later our parents left us alone in the house. It was a Friday night and they were going to drive into town and have dinner. Their fights had been getting worse and culminated in this: a dinner to decide the future of their marriage. Brandon and I knew it was bad because they were acting very calm around each other in front of us, almost frosty. In the wake of such a prolonged bout of shouting and loud stomping, it was scary. Dad helped slide my mom’s coat over her shoulders as they were heading out, an act that had all the signs of affection, but fell short of sincerity. He didn’t rub her shoulders or put his arms around her waist like I had seen him do in the past; in fact, he didn’t touch her at all during the gesture. He almost dropped the coat over my mom, the way you would throw a blanket over a birdcage when its occupant won’t stop squawking. “Alright boys, we’ll be back in a couple hours,” my father said tiredly. “Don’t unlock the doors until we get back.” “They were being weird,” I said to Brandon, who hadn’t looked up from the television through out this whole exchange. Berkeley Fiction Review

David Calbert

“Quiet, but in a weird way.”

about mockingly and asking, “So where is this horrible monster?”

“The eye of the storm,” Brandon said. I didn’t understand and he wouldn’t explain. I sat down with him to watch television, but he kept flicking my ear so hard that it swelled up, so I left to go read in my room.

The stairs opened onto a hallway with our rooms at the end of it. The doors to our rooms were about five steps away from the stairs, and the hallway was narrow. Before I could answer Brandon’s question, something on the roof moved. It didn’t just move, it thundered. It was like whatever was perched on the roof heard Brandon’s question and was coming towards us to answer. A curious illusion unfolded before me as I looked down the hallway. Everything seemed to grow narrower and the light from the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling faded to a dim flicker. I could feel the rush of air as some invisible horror advanced down the hallway towards us. But the dread was gone, and I was floating in a sea of quiet calm. Brandon had stepped in front of me when he heard the sound and shielded me with his arms. He knelt, standing on the balls of his feet and thrusting his shoulders forward, as if he were going to charge the thing, or let out a yell. I will always remember the image of my brother’s arms reaching back to grab me.

I had been reading for almost an hour when I heard it. A thump. Something had hit our roof, somewhere near my room. At first I didn’t think it was strange; owls sometimes landed on our roof in the middle of the night so they could spot mice running across the desert. But then I heard the noise again. And then again. I imagined a congress of owls landing on our roof, one after another, like fighter jets onto an aircraft carrier. But then the pace quickened and I realized that something was walking across our roof. I ran downstairs to Brandon and turned off the television. “What the hell you little turd. If you don’t turn that back on I’m going to make you swallow one of my scorpions,” Brandon growled, beginning to rise from the couch. I told him to be quiet and pointed towards the ceiling. “Something’s on the roof,” I hissed. Brandon jumped up, and I saw by the look in his eyes and his crooked smile that he meant to make a cruel game of this. His look crystalized a growing fear in my belly and hardened it into near dread. I felt trapped between Brandon and what ever was capering on the roof. “Something on the roof huh? Alright, Mitch, let’s go investigate. You can be my sidekick, sergeant shits-his-pants. Because, you know, you shit your pants.” Brandon began walking upstairs. I felt a brief inclination to hide in the broom closet down stairs until our parents returned, but decided to follow Brandon instead. The idea of waiting in a dark closet for him to eventually rip open the door and scare me seemed worse than whatever he might do upstairs. And there was something on the roof. Brandon bounded up the stairs two at a time with a sense of victory; I suppose he thought his story of Cactus Jack had been successful in giving me nightmares. He reached the top of the stairs and turned to face me, grinning crookedly, waving his arms 30

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The sound stopped as abruptly as it had started. Brandon turned, his eyes wide with fear, and asked in a hushed voice, “What the fuck was that?” I shook my head. Brandon was too scared to interpret my silence. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me downstairs, looking over his shoulder to make sure nothing followed. He nearly fell down the stairs in his eagerness to get away. “What do you think that was?” he asked as we ran into living room. I sat on the couch, watching Brandon pace back and forth in front of the television. I shook my head again. “I’m going to look out the front door,” Brandon said. “Dad said not to unlock it until they got back,” I said. I experienced everything happening with the same detachment and numbness as if I were watching a movie. But above all, I wasn’t afraid because of my older brother. “I’m not going to open the door, shit-for-brains, I’m just going to look out the glass in the middle.” Brandon ran through the kitchen to get to the front door. I heard a thud, and realized Berkeley Fiction Review

“Quiet, but in a weird way.”

about mockingly and asking, “So where is this horrible monster?”

David Calbert

that in his hurry he must have slid into it. There was a pause. Everything around me was over-bright, and little lights snapped on and off in the periphery of my vision. I knew that I should be scared, but for some reason I wasn’t. I didn’t care about what might happen; it didn’t seem to matter. It’s the only moment in my life that I can point to and say, there, that is what it means to have an older brother, to be surrounded by darkness and still feel the sun. Brandon came back and his face was pale. He wiped a few droplets of sweat from his brow and sat on the couch next to me. “What is it?” I asked. Brandon didn’t notice the amused tone in my voice, like we were playing some game. “There’s a dead coyote on our porch. It was all chewed up, like the other ones,” Brandon said. Again we heard thudding coming from upstairs, followed by a loud scraping noise, like someone dragging the metal teeth of a rake down the side of our house. Then padded footsteps outside, and the rustle of our mom’s achillea bush.

was like whatever he had seen had reached inside of him, like it had done to the animals we found on our porch, and scooped everything vital out of him. I looked into his eyes and only saw bottomlessness. Whatever Brandon saw outside the window skulked around the garden and then disappeared into the desert. Brandon didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night; he sat on the couch watching television. When mom and dad got home they didn’t have a lot to say either; the dinner hadn’t gone well. They told Brandon and me to go bed, and received no protest from either of us. That night I dreamed of Brandon in the desert. He was lying in the dust and his body was covered with cactus spines. When I knelt to pull them out he said, “Don’t, you’ll pull my soul out with them. You’re just going to have to leave them in.” “But you’re in pain,” I said. He didn’t respond. He just lay there in the dust, bleeding slowly. When I woke up, I felt my cheeks. They were wet.

“It’s in the garden,” I said. Brandon got up, paler than ever and walked to the window facing the garden. “I’m going to open it and see what the hell is outside,” he declared. Suddenly the spell of the evening was broken, and real fear filled me again. “Brandon, no, don’t let it get in,” I said, rising from the couch. “I’m not going to let it get in, numbnuts, I just want to see it.” Brandon undid the latch of the window and slowly slid the pane upwards. He stuck his head out and was still for a moment. I heard a low noise, like a grunt or a growl, and then a loud sniffing. Brandon pulled his head back in and slowly sealed the window. “What was it?” I asked. When he turned to face me, something in his expression had changed. He was no longer pale, but green in the face, and his eyes had a blank look in them. It 32

David Calbert

Berkeley Fiction Review

David Calbert

Berkeley Fiction Review

The Jury Man WENDY HERLICH

Ursula nervously watched the doorway to the Jury Man’s office. Soon the black county clerk who shared the space with him exited, en route to her smoke break, her well-padded figure a topography of lumps and bumps covered by a navy blue pantsuit. The swish of her thighs as she walked combined with the tapping of her pack of cigarettes into her palm created a percussive soundtrack to match Ursula’s anxious anticipation for this ritual she’d begun two weeks ago. As soon as the coast was clear, she rose casually and ducked into the now empty office off Jury Assembly Room 1216. There were two desks with name plates on them; the Jury Man’s read “Wilbur H. Nolan” and had a card standing up on it that proclaimed, “Happy Birthday, From All of Us” but was signed by only three people. Ursula set the unopened bottle of water, freshly purchased from the vending machine, on his desk, then impulsively grabbed a ballpoint pen that was sitting alongside a small stack of paperwork and shoved it into her pocket. She was in and out and sitting back in her usual aisle seat in the main room a full two minutes before the Jury Man came sauntering back from wherever he always went at this time of the morning, his beanpole frame bobbing back and forth, his bow tie slightly crooked, and the rebellious bit of hair on the crown of his head refusing to lie down flat. Out of all the citizens in the room, she was the only one who was coming there each day by choice, and the Jury Man was the reason. She had been called to report for duty on January 8th, but 34

Jessica Zheng

Berkeley Fiction Review

The Jury Man WENDY HERLICH

Jessica Zheng

Berkeley Fiction Review

hadn’t been selected, so she was dismissed the next day. When the Jury Man told those assembled that they were released and wouldn’t be called for another four years, there had been a collective sigh of relief, even a few quiet “Woo-hoo”s and some scattered applause. But Ursula had felt let down. She had been unemployed since October, when the investment bank where she worked in the word processing department had let people go. Coming to jury duty had provided the first opportunity in a number of weeks to leave her apartment. She’d start out sitting at her computer, looking at job postings, and before panic could completely overtake her, she’d distract herself with the web, reading people’s blogs or looking at YouTube videos. January 8th had been the first time that she’d been able to do nothing and not feel guilty about it. So the next day she decided to come back, and the next day, and the next. The courtrooms in 111 Centre Street were all open to the public by law, and this included the jury assembly room. The Jury Man had even warned them not to leave their valuables unattended, as anyone could wander in off the street. So even though Ursula’s name had been taken out of the pool and she had been handed her Juror’s Proof of Service Certificate, she continued to come in each morning with the newly summoned. The Jury Man walked up to the lectern at the front of the room with a couple sheets of paper in his hand. He leaned toward the microphone and said, in a voice that was somehow both nasal and deep in pitch, “When I call you, please get up and go out into the hallway where I will bring you new and exciting instructions.” As he began to list names, Ursula instinctively sunk down slightly in her seat. She knew that coming here like this was a little crazy, that if anybody noticed her she could be viewed as a stalker. So she smothered all self-awareness under the blanket of her subconscious, the only hint to its presence coming out through her attempts to keep a low profile. Luckily she wasn’t someone who would stand out in a room anyway. Her brown hair was dull and without style, usually hanging ambivalently to her shoulders or pulled back in a ponytail. Once, she had seen a spread in a fashion magazine titled, “From Under the Knife to Under the Radar” depicting ‘Before’ and ‘After’ shots of celebrities who had gotten nose jobs and facelifts and killed their careers. Ursula felt she looked like 36

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one of those ‘After’ pictures; her features were inoffensive but also unremarkable. Sometimes she tried to imagine her ‘Before’ look: her face, but with a large Italian nose, or plump round cheeks, something unique that would give her some character. About the only distinguishing feature she had was her pale skin, inherited from her Ukrainian grandmother, but this, rather than being creamy and porcelain-like, tended toward the purple tinge of poor circulation. As the Jury Man continued to rumble out names, “Rosa Fernandez...Bernice Maron...John Simon...” Ursula pulled the pen she’d taken from his office out of her pocket and began twirling it in her hand. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, the concern she’d felt for this poor sap, the guy with the unenviable position of telling a mob of people that would be hostile at worst, apathetic at best, about the ins and outs of jury duty. The large room could seat about 150, and it was amazing how sitting with a group of people she didn’t know with one person standing up at the front instantly took her back to high school. Perhaps this is why Ursula was convinced that the Jury Man would be hated and mocked, like a substitute teacher. So she was relieved when he immediately acknowledged, “A lot of you don’t want to be here, which is normal, nothing to be alarmed about.” He had a quiet, deadpan delivery, a quick wit, and dry sense of humor. “If we call your name for a trial and don’t see you on the sign-out sheet, we will be forced to turn your name over to the Office of the Jury Commissioner, and when you come up after a few hours or days to let us know you haven’t been called, tears will be shed, recriminations will be tossed at us, and we clerks will be filled with righteous indignation.” It was amazing how once the Jury Man started talking everything changed. People who had come in agitated started to calm down; those who had been sulky slowly began to thaw out. By the end of the day, people were even quietly chuckling and smiling. The transformation was astonishing. The Jury Man was a gifted performer; Ursula loved watching how he came up with new lines and quips each day, as well as folded in trusted favorites. But what kept her coming back was his courageousness. Years ago, Ursula’s mother had forced her to attend a self-help seminar. Ostensibly this was to improve their mother/ Berkeley Fiction Review

Wendy Herlich

daughter bond, but after they’d arrived she had realized that her mother was dating the self-proclaimed “guru.” The group had been instructed to repeat a list of mantras, and since Ursula was a good student, incapable of making trouble, she’d obeyed, albeit as inaudibly as possible. She’d been peeved when she noticed that her mother wasn’t saying them at all; instead she was holding her incense stick as though it was the stem of a rose and grinning at her boyfriend like an imbecile. Witnessing the Jury Man’s daily triumph in the face of such discouraging circumstances was like watching a mantra instead of repeating one. Some days Ursula would leave the court house with an awareness of a body part she’d never given a thought to before: the space within her skull just behind her eye sockets, the miracle of an elbow joint and how it could extend a hand. “Karimi Rashad...and Peggy Jansen...that’s it for now. I’ll let the rest of you get back to the thrill of the wait.” As the Jury Man headed up the aisle on his way to instruct the jurors in the hallway, Ursula realized she still had his pen in her hand, and shoved it back into her pocket, as she felt the air rush past her in his wake. She thought about her own hostile jurors: the pile of unopened bills stacked on her hallway table, the inappropriate gift (a bottle of lotion she was allergic to) that Drew had given her before they’d broken up, the canvases leftover from her life as an artist that were tucked in her closet. Temping at the bank had started as a day job, and when she’d first moved to New York she’d been painting a lot. She had been most proud of her “Audience” series: depictions of spectators at different events— movies, plays, sports. But while some curators had appreciated her unique voice, most others had complained that her work was static. Eventually she expanded her hours at the bank and began painting less and less. This transition had been natural and painless as she settled for the mild satisfaction of a job well done: a sense of purpose that had been so weak, she hadn’t expected its loss to affect her so much. Her stomach grumbled so she got up and headed toward the vending vestibule that yawned off the back of the room. Inside, a woman was cursing, aggressively snapping a dollar bill between her manicured fingers in an attempt to smooth it out. 38

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“Goddamn it! All I want is a fucking Diet Coke.” Ursula unzipped her faded yellow change purse. “That always happens. Here,” she said, offering up four quarters. Since she had discovered the soda machine’s tendency to reject any bills, regardless of their condition, it had become a part of her routine to stop at the bank in the morning on her way downtown and get five dollars in change. She knew firsthand what it was like to feel the world working against her, and even though it was a small thing, she somehow felt that in giving people quarters just as they were about to give up and go across the street to the deli, she was doing them a service. The woman took the money and gave Ursula the dollar without a smile or a thank you. Her eyes could only have been so green with the aid of colored contacts. “It seems like this whole place was designed to waste people’s time,” she grumbled. As she bent down to retrieve her soda, the contents of her purse partially spilled out onto the floor. “Oh fuck,” she said under her breath. Ursula squatted down and helped collect an eyeglass case, a few receipts, and a bunch of identical business cards, upon which she noticed the words “Eve Roker, Vice President, Account Planning.” “Thanks. This is not my day,” Eve Roker said, standing up and exhaling dramatically. “Have you ever done this before?” Ursula shook her head. “Well, if I get put on a trial, I’m just going to say I’m a racist and that my dad was in the KKK. That will probably guarantee I get dismissed. Everyone says if you can convince them you have a bias, they let you go.” She tossed her frosted blond hair over her shoulder where it fell in perfect blow-dried position. Ursula said, “I guess not wanting to be here is a kind of bias in itself, right?” “Well, then they’d have to dismiss all of us.” Eve Roker said as she left the vestibule. All except for me, Ursula thought, and she felt slightly embarrassed as she imagined herself sitting alone in the empty room. Berkeley Fiction Review

Wendy Herlich

She reached into her change purse for more quarters, but when she held them out to the next person in line he said, “How much do you want to bet mine goes through?” He grinned, poised with his dollar. As Ursula said, “It doesn’t work. It won’t accept bills,” he turned and inserted it with one motion. It took; the Mountain Dew he requested came scuttling down immediately. He said, “You owe me,” and left with a swagger in his step. The other people in line stared at her and Ursula felt foolish, as though she had just been caught running a scam. “It usually doesn’t work,” she muttered feebly, and then stepped toward the other machine, putting unnatural focus on the snack choices before her.

off and he’d driven out to the beach. He loved the beach in winter: standing on the boardwalk in the punishing winds, the warmth of the car just steps away. It had been his first day off all year. He hardly ever used his vacation time; he actually liked his routine. The job itself had never been exciting, but he had always found that the more he acknowledged this lack of enthusiasm and that of the assembled potential jurors, the more enthusiastic he would become. He was happy to be working for the state; when he was ready to retire, he knew he’d be okay. Still, since his birthday he’d begun to feel acutely aware of time passing. It was uncomfortable; he’d never been the type to ruminate.

Wilbur adjusted his bow tie and walked into the office he shared with the other clerks. He filed the latest juror call sheet in the box on the right-hand corner of his desk, and noticed a bottle of water was there again. “Sheila,” he called over. She had just come back from a smoke break; tobacco stench clung to the air surrounding her and wafted his way. “You sure you didn’t get this for me?”

Of course, he’d never imagined he’d be at ease with a career like this, either. When he was young, growing up in the Bronx, he’d been terrified of public speaking. Had anyone told him one day it would be a part of his job to get up and speak in front of 150 people each day, he never would have believed them. He had been told he was “entertaining,” that he had a “presence,” that he “should do stand-up comedy.” He’d also been told he “should try match.com,” that he looked “good in certain lighting,” that he was “the kind of guy I’d fall for if I wasn’t so fucked up.” He had not been told that he was the love of anyone’s life or that he was great in bed. The words “attractive,” “sexy,” and “powerful” had never been used to describe him. This had never bothered him.

“Wilbur,” she said. “You better not touch that water. It could have anthrax in it.” “It’s sealed,” he said, cracking open the bottle and taking a swig. Sheila rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly through her mouth. “It doesn’t matter. They have all sorts of technology they can use these days. We’re targets, you know. Employees of the government.” She said this last sentence with a hint of pride. “What an honor. If I die, you can have my stapler.” Sheila rolled her eyes again. He looked down at his desk and noted with irritation the memo that was on top of it, sitting alongside an American flag, folded and wrapped in shiny plastic. It read, “Many of our courtrooms are displaying worn out or discolored flags; as a result, we are asking that all of them be replaced by Friday, January 30th.” He swept the memo into the garbage can, mistakenly tipping over the birthday card he’d gotten from his co-workers. He righted it, then realized how long it had been displayed and tossed that too. He had turned 58 a month ago; they’d given him the day 40

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He had lived alone his whole life. He wasn’t sure if it would be possible for him to live with anyone else. One time his sister came to visit. He made the mistake of mentioning that he was thinking of redecorating the living room, and she immediately offered to help, switching the position of a chair and a table. It deeply disturbed him for days, until he could stand it no longer and moved them back. Now, whenever he found himself attracted to someone, he imagined what part of his floor plan she would disturb. Is she a toiletry stockpiler? Would she want rugs? It helped combat his loneliness to think of these things. He was asked out from time to time. Working as a county clerk ensured he was always in contact with strangers. He’d sometimes thought about the six degrees of separation theory, and how many people would be linked to others through him. He wondered how many he had instructed; one slow day he actually Berkeley Fiction Review

Wendy Herlich

estimated it and was in the process of converting the number (739,000) into an image (as many people as live in San Francisco) when he was gripped with a deep sense of shame at his selfaggrandizement. Did waiters and waitresses ever do this? Did actors count up the audience members who had seen them? Now every time he encountered a reference to San Francisco he felt a twinge of embarrassment. The constant exposure to new people meant that from time to time, a woman would give him her card, charmed by his humor and aware of his naked left ring finger. Once, a long time ago, he’d taken up one of these invitations. It had been a strained and awkward evening. They’d gone out for dinner but had little to say to each other. He could feel the disappointment seeping out of her with each bite she took of her veggie samosa. Because inside the jury assembly room, he was confident and commanding, but outside he was the man behind the curtain, just a county clerk who made sarcastic cracks on occasion. It was humiliating, the way they’d both felt obligated to pretend they’d enjoyed themselves, the way they had kept up the charade that they would do this again, “and next time order the Vindaloo chicken with less spice!” The wrinkle in her cleavage winked at him every time she spoke, as though it was in on the joke. They’d even gone so far as to kiss goodnight; he was baffled by the force that had propelled him to act as though he desired her. In the jury assembly room, his strength was cutting through the bull, being straight with people, honestly acknowledging the apathy in the room. But outside he possessed none of this ability. He had walked her to her apartment, put his hand around her waist and planted his wan lips on hers with a force that might’ve been confused for ardor if they both hadn’t known otherwise. Of course they had never spoken again. But the worst of it was that she’d been called to serve four years later and the memory of the incident totally knocked him off his game; the whole day he’d lost his dry delivery and instead found himself instructing the jurors in a strained, helpful way, like Sheila did when she was in charge. So then and there he decided against any further dating within the jury pool. He drained the rest of the water bottle and tossed it into the garbage can, then picked up the flag and walked back out into the assembly room. The girl was there again, in her usual spot. 42

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He remembered giving her the Juror’s Completion of Service Certificate three weeks ago. She’d smiled at him with a gratitude that had seemed out of scale with the gesture. He’d assumed at first she was happy to get out of serving, but then she kept returning, day after day. Now she was giving him water bottles. He didn’t understand it; he almost didn’t dare to wonder about it. But though he couldn’t admit it, even to himself, deep down he hoped that one day she’d explain it to him. *** “I have savings.” Ursula pushed the rest of her uneaten burrito into her napkin, watching the beans create a grey band of liquid advancing slowly from their initial point of contact. She was standing in the long hallway outside the jury assembly room, fiddling with the remains of her lunch that were splayed out on the windowsill. “Well that can’t last forever,” her mother said. The volume of her voice kept changing, and Ursula recognized that she must be doing things around the house, holding the phone on her shoulder with her ear as she multi-tasked. “No, I know. It’s just a really important case. I have to fulfill my job as a juror.” She had told her mother she couldn’t disclose any details of the trial. “Have you heard from Drew at all?” “No, mom. We broke up a year ago, why would I-“ “I don’t know who you think you’re waiting for.” “I’m not waiting for anyone. Anyway, he broke up with me...thank God.” “He seemed like a real find.” “He was an arrogant prick. Why would you think I’m waiting for somebody?” “Well then what are you waiting for? You’re 32 years old. You’re not an artist. You’re not a banker. What are you doing? Who are you?” Berkeley Fiction Review

Wendy Herlich

Ursula turned away from her dismembered burrito, suddenly nauseated. Try as she might to avoid it, these conversations inevitably led her here and for some reason, it always took her by surprise. She was like somebody who kept buying a new map of the same place expecting to arrive at a different destination. “These are just the types of questions you should be asking yourself, that’s all I’m saying.” Ursula heard her mother turn on the faucet and was instantly transported to her kitchen. She pictured the view of the mountains above the sink, the windowsill cluttered with Santa Festyle knick-knacks. As the water sound stopped, Ursula saw her mother rearranging her items obsessively, her acrylic nails clicking as she picked up a small turquoise box and adjusted it to catch the light. “Okay, I have to go back in now. Say hi to Raoul for me.” “I will, honey.” Before hanging up, Ursula heard her mother’s unnamed Shih Tzu yip, as though he were laughing at both the request and the promise. *** Eve Roker was casually chatting with the Jury Man at the front of the room. Ursula watched as he listened to her with his eyes on the ground, a quirk that was oddly disarming. His lack of eye contact actually seemed to enhance his connection with the speaker, as though he was blocking out any visual distraction from interfering with the words. Ursula sat in her usual seat, and felt a surge of pride as she watched Eve Roker break into a smile with teeth showing. It looked like an expression that had seldom been worn; the folds and creases it created in the face pulled unnaturally. The conversation ended with Eve Roker chuckling as she said over her shoulder, “I’d just hate to miss any of the fun.” Her transformation was complete; another citizen had been won over. Ursula pulled out her book, but had only gotten through a paragraph when her eyes drifted to the man sitting next to her. His head was buried in a newspaper. She could see none of his 44

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face, just a large tanned hand. It was curled up with only the pointer finger extended, like one of those foam “#1” souvenirs they give out at sporting events. His fingertip was just covering the left cheek of Little Richard, who sat in a gold suit, his eyes bulging alongside the headline, “He May Be Frail, But He’s Still a Showman.” The man coughed and readjusted his hand so that he now covered Little Richard’s nose and one of his eyes. Ursula could just read the caption beneath the photo: “Little Richard believes in a divine plan, ‘Never put a question mark where God has put a period.’” Ursula reached into her pocket and absently fingered the pen she’d taken from the Jury Man’s desk, pondering this for a moment. What if he doesn’t put a period? What if he keeps using question marks? What if he writes a run-on sentence? She imagined God as a divine copyeditor in the sky, reading each person’s life as it unfolded on a scroll, using a red permanent pen to make corrections: “Eve Roker hated jury duty” would become, “Eve Roker hated to miss any of the fun at jury duty.” The Jury Man scratched his forehead and stepped up to his microphone. “I’d like to let you know that the court stenographer just said, ‘That’s the most capable-looking group of jurors I’ve ever seen.’ And ladies and gentlemen, this fellow has been working here for close to 30 years, so he has a lot to compare you with.” The other clerk came out from the office and handed him a piece of paper. He took it with one hand and adjusted his jacket with the other. Ursula wondered if he ever felt depressed. Thoughts of failure and possible negative outcomes always seemed to come to her unbidden, in the flash of an instant, especially lately. She knew she’d been given a leg up in life in many respects: by being born a middle-class American, by having white skin, by being intelligent. But all the space that was open before her only made her feel more desperate. Discouragement was a physical force that pressed up against her too closely. She couldn’t imagine the Jury Man ever being paralyzed with hopelessness. She wanted to know the secret to this magical power; she imagined holding his hand and feeling it pass through her like an electric shock. The man next to her snapped his paper closed and Berkeley Fiction Review

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adjusted his posture. Now that the newspaper was out of the way, Ursula could see his face, and recognized him as the Mountain Dew guy from the vending machine. He was attractive by most people’s standards, but she didn’t like the look. His skin was too yellow, or maybe his eyes were too blue. He was sitting with his legs spread apart, his left knee bouncing, as if to emphasize his invasion of her chair space. Up and down, asserting itself, again and again. He caught her eye and said, “You! You owe me money.” Ursula said, “Ah...what do you mean?” “I bet you that I could get my dollar in. So you owe me five bucks.” Ursula gave a nervous half-laugh. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.” He moved in a little closer and said, “I’m only kidding.” Then he moved away, looking her up and down as he did. He looked like an executive on his day off; his button-down was blue and open at the collar. His knee had picked up its pace, moving faster now, pointing at Ursula’s own neatly crossed legs. She scanned the room for another place to sit, but before she could move the Jury Man said, “Okay, folks if I could have your attention please...we got another trial. Twenty-five lucky souls will be selected this time. As disappointing as this may sound, you will not be allowed to make an acceptance speech.” A couple of people near the front chuckled and Ursula smiled, but the man sitting next to her sighed impatiently. “What, does he think this is a comedy club?” he said under his breath. As the Jury Man started reading off names, he turned to Ursula. “I bet we’d get out of here a lot sooner if he’d cut all the commentary. You think this guy’s funny?” “Uh-huh,” she said. The man snorted in response. It was loud and made the woman sitting in front of him turn around. “Unbelievable,” he said. The Jury Man glanced over at them, and Ursula tried to 46

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telepathically send a message: I’m not in on this; I don’t approve. But he was already back into his list of names. “Angela Allison,” he called out, and the Mountain Dew guy stood up as if in response. Then he sat back down, smirking at Ursula. She smiled in discomfort, but the guy seemed to take this as encouragement, because a few names later he stood up for “Carlotta Riviera.” After he sat back down, he stuck his hand out to Ursula. “I forgot to introduce myself. Carlotta Riviera,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” The Jury Man leaned into the mic and said, “Please only respond when I call you. If you’re not sure of your name or your gender, see me later. Maybe I can help you figure it out.” A couple of people in the rows behind them laughed at that. Mountain Dew’s smile froze on his face and he nodded, as if taking credit for the retort himself. He was quiet for the rest of the list and when it was over, Ursula was picking up her bag to go when he said, “What a loser. Trying to make so much of his state job. How come you buy him water?” Ursula was thrown off. “What are you talking about?” “I saw you buy water for that guy today and yesterday, and sneak into his office to give it to him. How come?” Ursula struggled for an answer. “He asked me to get it,” she found herself saying. “So then why didn’t you just hand it to him? Why the sneaking around?” Now he broke out into a broad grin. “I wasn’t sneaking...” Ursula felt cornered. Politeness chained her to her seat. “All right, all right. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” he said. “Let’s start over. I’m Aaron.” Ursula reluctantly took the hand that he’d offered. Other women knew how to maneuver out of these situations, but she never did. “Ursula,” she mumbled. Berkeley Fiction Review

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“Ursula...so what do you do?” he asked.

the dollar he offered her in exchange.

“Umm.... actually, I’m unemployed right now.”

Wilbur grabbed onto the top ring, carefully unhooking the flag from the pole, lifting it high so that it wouldn’t touch the ground. The last thing he needed was for someone to complain to his supervisor that he was unpatriotic. Sheila had told him he should wait until the day was over and the people were gone, but he wasn’t going to stay late to take down a flag that didn’t need replacing. If he was going to have to do this stupid busy work, then he’d do it when he wanted to. He backed slowly down the ladder, holding the flag above his head, and brought it over to the desk in the front corner of the room. It was large enough that he could spread most of the flag out without the sides dragging on the floor. He started folding it, like he folded sheets at home, in half, then in half again, before he remembered seeing movies where they folded flags at funerals for dead soldiers. Wasn’t it supposed to go into little triangles or something? Was that just at funerals, or was this another one of those things everyone knew but him? He looked out at the crowd. Thankfully, nobody was paying much attention.

“Unemployed from what?” Ursula thought of her dormant job search, the computer at home that mocked her with its light dusting of yellow post-its displaying the names of different contacts she had half-heartedly collected over the last few months. She didn’t need a reason to leave; she could just get up and go. There was no obligation to be nice to this guy. “I worked at a bank,” she said. “You’re not a banker. Seriously, what do you do?” he asked. His presumptuousness shocked her into answering. “I...was a painter...” she stammered. “Was,” he said. He stretched it out, so it sounded like an unfamiliar word, like a foreign name. “All right, I get it. You don’t have to say another word.” And he narrowed his eyes at her as though they shared a secret. Ursula found a way to rip her focus from his stare and grappled for her bag. “I have to get something to drink,” she said and walked to the back of the room, glancing at him only when she’d joined the line just inside the open door of the vestibule. He was rolling his head around on his neck and Ursula could see by the subtle movement of his shoulders that his knee must still be jiggling up and down. She felt a sudden flush of heat travel up to her temples, and for a moment, the whole room darkened slightly, except for around the circle of space that he took up in her line of view, like footage of a crime caught on a grainy security camera, highlighted so the suspect can be seen clearly. “Do you?” Ursula brought her focus to the young guy in the baseball cap who was talking to her. “Sorry?” “This machine isn’t taking any bills.” Ursula unzipped her change purse, which was already somehow in her hand, and gave him quarters, forgetting to take 48

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He wanted to know her name; he’d been trying to remember it for the last two weeks, ever since he’d noticed her returning day after day. This was stupid. In the entire time he’d been working at the courthouse he’d never taken an interest in such superficialities. Not only that, but he was having a hard time keeping his focus on anything. He kept ruminating on his birthday. As he’d stood out on the boardwalk this year, watching the waves pummeling the shore, he’d thought about the grains of sand and how the pounding action had created them. How they’d all once been part of huge boulders and stones and were now ground down by the cycle of waves into miniscule specks. And he’d found himself getting choked up about it; tears had welled from his eyes, even though he hadn’t cried since he was eleven years old and had fallen off the fire escape. He finished folding the old flag and sneezed. It was dusty, but still in perfectly good shape. He wondered what they would do with it. Where did old flags go when they were used up? He took the new flag out of the shiny plastic package it had come in. It smelled like acetone and was rolled up tightly, so that he was able to hold it in one hand as he climbed back up the ladder. Berkeley Fiction Review

“Ursula...so what do you do?” he asked.

the dollar he offered her in exchange.

“Umm.... actually, I’m unemployed right now.”

Wendy Herlich

What was her name? She was the kind of girl he would have wanted when he was younger. He glanced out at her briefly; the ladder afforded him a bird’s-eye-view of the room. She was beautiful in a quiet way, but more importantly, he could tell she was smart, and that there was something going on behind her eyes. The smile she’d given him when he’d handed her the certificate had charmed him, but there was something else that had made a bigger impact. When she was worried, she would pull out a rectangular pouch with a zipper and open and close it. He had first observed this when he’d passed by her in the hallway on his way to instruct some jurors a couple weeks before. She was speaking on a cell phone with a knit brow, and he’d heard nothing but “Mom, I’m not saying I have a better idea…” When he’d begun speaking to the assembled group, he’d snuck peeks at her and noticed her take the pouch out and move the zipper back and forth as she continued with her conversation. Since then, he’d seen her do it on several occasions inside the room as well. The cloth pouch was well worn and so faded that he couldn’t tell what color it once had been, but she clearly cared for it, and the way she held it, massaging it gently with one hand while manipulating the zipper with the other, reached directly into the dried-out corners of his old heart. It had been years since he had really yearned for someone, but now, as he unrolled the flag, he remembered his first and only serious relationship, just after he’d graduated from Queens College. He’d been optimistic enough about it to sign just a oneyear lease for his apartment in Sunnyside, in case it had gotten serious. As it turned out it had ended a few months later, and she’d left the leather diary he’d given her in the lobby of his building with a Dear John letter as its only entry. But there was a time he’d imagined marriage in his future, maybe even some kids. He wondered what his younger self would think of his life. What was he headed for? He liked everything in its place, but would the order and routine someday become relentless? Would he die as the neighbor upstairs had: alone, only to be discovered when the unbearable scent of his decomposing body made the other tenants complain to the landlord? Would touch ever be a natural part of his life again, so that he wouldn’t look forward so much to the shampoo he received when he went to get his hair cut? He was having trouble attaching the new flag; the clip 50

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seemed too big for the ring or something. Perfect. It would be just like the state to give him a new flag that didn’t actually fit on the flagpole. He adjusted his footing and reached for the clip with his other hand. He could go down to the Office of the Jury Commissioner and get Don to look up her name for him. But that was a shortcut that would miss the point. He felt he should remember; he had given her the certificate of service, he had held her name in his hand, had called it out even. He’d always had a good memory, especially when it came to unforgettable people. Was he that far gone? Doomed, not only to miss out, but to be unable to even name what he wanted? The clip slipped over the ring at last and he climbed down the ladder. The colors were brighter, but the flag looked extremely wrinkled and a bit pathetic. He wondered if he was supposed to iron it or if gravity would eventually pull the wrinkles out. He balled up the smelly plastic and tossed it into the garbage can. She had a book, but she wasn’t really reading. He kept noticing her glancing up at the slightest distraction, and no matter what it was, someone getting up to go to the restroom, a man coughing, or a recrossing of the legs, she gave it a look of focused intent, as though any gesture or movement could be a lifeline that she could grab onto with her gaze. Was it Susan? Amanda? No, something less ordinary. Now someone was approaching him, asking if they could step out and run a quick errand, in the area, it won’t take too long, and he was forced to turn his attention to the sign-out sheet. *** Ursula sighed and pulled the zipper on her change purse open and closed again. She had been edgy all afternoon, ever since her conversation with the Mountain Dew guy. Over the last few weeks, she had felt she was close to getting some answers. That coming here and listening to the Jury Man was the key, if she could just be patient and present. Mr. Mountain Dew had poked at this confidence, had disturbed the soil around what had been growing, slowly and steadily. And now, instead of the hollow despair this kind of agitation usually provoked, overwhelming Berkeley Fiction Review

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yet predictable, a ball of anger had begun to gather in the pit of her stomach, a discomfort that was exciting for its novelty. As if on cue, Mountain Dew slid into the chair next to her. “Is this seat taken?” “Not really,” Ursula said. “Not really?” he repeated, with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That’s a weird answer.” “Well, maybe I’m weird.” He was holding another Mountain Dew in his hand, and he caught her looking at it. “A dollar went right in again. Guess I’ve got the magic touch.” She didn’t answer, so he said, “Anyway, I don’t think you’re so weird, even if you do sneak around giving middle-aged bureaucrats water, like the goddamn tooth fairy or something. You got a boyfriend?” This she knew how to deflect. “Yes,” she said. “His name is Drew.” “No you don’t. I can tell you’re lying.” He winked. “I won’t take it personally.” “Believe what you want.” Ursula knew she couldn’t win in this conversation. The ball of anger grew, moving through her guts, warming her with its heat. “So you got no job and no boyfriend, and you’re rejecting me. Ouch,” he said. “I own my own business. Fitness clubs.” “Good for you.” She must have said it with finality, because he actually stopped talking to her for a minute. Just then the Jury Man walked out of the office and up to the desk behind the lectern. He looked at Ursula briefly, the first moment he’d made eye contact during the whole time she’d been there. She almost stood as though he had said her name aloud. Mountain Dew must have caught the glance. “I think he’s thirsty,” he said to Ursula in the low voice people use when they don’t know how to whisper. The same woman who had glared at them earlier shook her head without turning around. Ursula tried 52

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a silent mantra: shut your mouth, shut your mouth. Wilbur stood before the group with his list in front of him. Catching her eye had distracted him, and now he could see her hands clutching that old pouch. He started to say, “Okay, look alive people. I got a lot of names to call out here,” but it came out wrong. His voice was higher in pitch than usual; instead of being sarcastic, he sounded shrill. He scratched his forehead. Suddenly he was hyper-conscious of his pulse, of his lungs pumping air in and out. He could feel each spot where his clothing touched his skin. Ursula noticed the change. He knows he’s being mocked, she thought. He thinks I’m a part of it. She suddenly felt disoriented, like she was visiting a room with the exact same layout, but on a different floor. “Agua,” Mountain Dew said quietly. “Aguaaaaa...” “Stop it,” she hissed at him. Wilbur started reading names, but the letters kept scrambling. “Ah...Melinda...no Melissa...Jones.” He imagined all the lists that lay stretched out in his future, set end upon end, a nightmarish bridge of names spanning across the country. He saw himself walking across it, seeking her forever, wading through throngs of people he would never know. His bow tie felt like it was choking him. Ursula watched him grow paler. The names were coming out quietly, tentatively. She felt like she had been pulled onto the wrong team. She couldn’t bear seeing him like this; all his confidence had drained away. He looked fragile, as though he’d been stripped naked and forced to carry on his routine. She shot a glance at Mountain Dew, willing him to behave. He met her eyes without turning his head. It was a game to him. The ball of anger exploded in her chest; she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. She felt a surge of tears rushing up, making her throat clench and her sinuses buzz and tighten. She thought of Little Richard’s bulging eyes, “Never put a question mark where God has put a period.” “Must...have...water!” Mountain Dew said, in a croak, his volume increasing slightly. Berkeley Fiction Review

Wendy Herlich

“SHUT UP!” she yelled, as she grabbed the Mountain Dew out of his hand and dumped it over his head. It surprised her how long it took; the soda burbled out over a good five seconds, but for some reason he didn’t move. The woman sitting on the other side of him jumped away as the sweet stickiness dribbled down his hair, darkened the top of his shirt, and made rivulets on his seat. Ursula let go of the empty can, and it bounced off his shoulder, hitting the floor with a stuttering ping. Lemon-lime scent filled the air. People gasped and stared. The Mountain Dew guy’s face had not registered surprise in so long it looked uncomfortable doing so, and he quietly said, “Okay, Jesus.” It took a moment for Wilbur to recognize the chaos that was unfolding. Then he called into the microphone, “Ursula, gather your things and come up here.” It came out effortlessly, surprising him. Ursula. Ursula. She picked up her bag and her coat, which had a large splash of soda on it. People started talking quietly as she made her way to the front of the room. Finally, she reached the lectern. The Jury Man had come back to himself; his cheeks had regained some of their color. He said, “What was that all about?” She said, “He wouldn’t stop talking to me. I overreacted. I’m sorry.” He said, “Why don’t you wait for me in my office?” *** Ursula walked into the room. The office mate was seated, writing something, clearly oblivious to the fracas that had happened outside the door. There was an old flag sitting on the chair next to the Jury Man’s desk. Ursula moved it and sat down. She was utterly exhausted, but she also felt focused and light. She wanted to say something helpful. Something to make up for her disturbance.

down, but also shoring up, depositing sediment, making solid ground where there had been none. “Okay, thanks Ursula,” he said. Now, with her sitting right up close to him, it felt familiar, like a name he had said hundreds of times. He was flooded with gratitude for this small wonder. The fact that he knew her somehow made her feel like she had to confess. She said, “I’m not supposed to be here.” He said, “It’s okay.” She found her mouth shaping words she wasn’t prepared for. “I thought you could help me.” “I’m flattered,” he said. There was no apology in his voice. His instant acceptance of the fact that he hadn’t helped, that he couldn’t have helped at all, comforted her more than any soothing words or sympathetic gesture. They sat looking at each other for a few moments. Their truths hung in the air between them, mingling around each other. Both of them exhaled slightly. Tension released from his brow and her neck. The other clerk looked up at them, and then back down again. Ursula looked down at the flag. “I threw the flag on the floor,” she said. “I see,” he answered. They both smiled. The improbability of this moment struck her. Nothing before now could have logically led to this. She had made it happen, against all odds. She said, “I have to leave now right?” He said, “Yes, you do.” And Ursula saw each letter clearly as he said it, the roll of the comma indicated by his slight pause, and finally the period, small, dark, and merciful.

After a minute, he came into the office and sat down across from her. She said, “The vending machine isn’t taking any bills.” Then she added, “Sometimes.” He thought of the surf at the beach, not only grinding 54

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Berkeley Fiction Review

Wendy Herlich

Berkeley Fiction Review

Not Today MADISON CRYSTAL

“It’s the third strike, Mr. Reeves,” Daniel shrieked into my ear through the miles of phone line that connected us. “I left the house for fifteen minutes on a grocery run, and came back to find Norma humming ‘Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dina’ and cooking pasta over a stove range that had completely caught on fire. The paramedics are here now—I can either have her delivered to you after the hospital examines her, or I can have her sent to a proper nursing home, but I can’t take care of her anymore.” “I can pick her up, Daniel. Which hospital? I can meet you down there in half an hour—I’ll bring your last paycheck.” Alright, I’ll admit I didn’t really take time to anticipate the obstacles in bringing my ninety-eight-year-old grandmother into my own family to live with us, or stop to think about how my family would react to the change. All I could think about when Daniel, her live-in caretaker, told me how close she’d been to falling off the edge of senility, was how she’d been the only person to stay in my life from birth to the Harley Davidson symbol of my midlife crisis. I never knew my parents; they’d died by the time I was two. But Grandma swooped in so swiftly to care for me, I never noticed the difference. I’d never had a reason to feel insecure growing up, not even when we lived way up in the mountains, where the coyotes howled at night, and bears sniffed at the trash cans in broad daylight. Once, we’d had a mountain lion come right up to our front porch. I can remember dropping my toys and staring at it through 56

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Berkeley Fiction Review

Not Today MADISON CRYSTAL

Jessica Zheng

Berkeley Fiction Review

the flimsy screen door, wondering if big cats liked the taste of human meat, but Grandma stood right up to it without any fear. She bore down on it with hands waving in the air and her spine erect, telling it to get off our property. It did so after she picked up a broom and started twirling that in front of her like some kind of samurai warrior (at least that’s the impression I had at the time). I wasn’t afraid even for a second then, but I was scared shitless now realizing I’d be the one taking care of this impregnable force of a woman. *** The transition into our home didn’t go quite as smoothly as I had hoped. My wife, Maria, nearly shrieked with horror the first time she reached into the washer and pulled out a pair of voluminous, saggy underwear from the washing machine, and had to buy a pair of wireless headphones for the TV because Grandma’s humming “mangled all the best lines” of her afternoon soap. For the first few weeks, Stephen pestered me constantly while I was in my office to ask why Grandma didn’t have any eyebrows anymore. He became determined to try the cooking fire explanation I’d told him on himself when he didn’t believe me. But by far, the least cooperative person of the bunch was Grandma herself. Some days she just locked herself in her room, or sat knitting in the living room, humming so loudly that no one could even talk to her; but that was the least of my worries. About one month into her stay, she developed this peculiar habit that only cropped up when the timing couldn’t possibly have been worse. The first incident occurred on Stephen’s eleventh birthday, after I had lined the table with his three presents and coaxed my wife into frosting the cake at 6:30 a.m. so it would be ready for an unexpected breakfast. The start of the day went off without a hitch; the cake was lined with candles whose flames’ shadows tickled the shiny wrapping paper of the presents enticingly, and Stephen became unnaturally generous with hugs and praise after unwrapping his brand new bike seat (the rest of it was out in the garage, but I didn’t want to spoil the mystery with an unwrappable present). We had all just cut fat slices of cake onto our plates, when grandma shuffled into the room. She always looked particularly rough in the mornings. Her dull grey hair lifted straight into the air and just hovered there like the last dry leaves left on 58

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a twisted and cracked old tree. Her eyes were rheumy clouds of confusion next to the glinting new gadgets and shredded ribbons that covered the floor. I’m not even sure if she would have noticed the celebration going on, so determined was she to get to the calendar on the fridge, as she always did first thing in the morning, tapping it lightly with her finger and remaining silent as though she were calculating something. But I was quick to intercept her with a plate on her way in. “Grab some cake, Ma,” I said, leaning in to kiss her cheek, while I forced the plate into her hands. She took it from me with some mistrust and squinted around at the table. Stephen put the Build Your Own T-Rex kit down and stared uncomfortably at his feet. My wife adjusted the already straight hem of her blouse and pushed the coffee mug up to swallow her face. “We would have called you out sooner to see the presents, but we didn’t want to wake you… Stephen, show Grandma what you got for your birthday.” Stephen muttered an awkward inventory of his morning to which Grandma responded by lifting her chin into the air and telling Stephen Happy Birthday with a strange smile. Then she flopped herself down at the table, shoveled a bite of frosting into her mouth, and told us with creamy blue lips: “I’ve decided to die this afternoon.” My own fork slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor. None of us even reacted to the sudden noise. “Yes, sir. Today’s the day,” she announced jovially and dug back into her cake, humming, “happy birthday to you…” Stephen’s eyes widened and looked from Grandma to me in terror. I tried to laugh it off. This had to be a joke, right? “That’s a good one, Ma,” I said, even though it wasn’t. “That’s probably enough cake for everyone anyway. Stephen, I should probably take you to school, don’t you think?” He practically ran to the car. I kissed my wife a hurried goodbye while she glared at me with eyes like two sinking ships: You’re abandoning me with this? I shrugged, picked up my keys, and slunk out the door. Berkeley Fiction Review

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“Hey, Dad?” Stephen asked after I had started the car and begun pulling out of the driveway. “Shouldn’t we have said goodbye to Grandma if she’s dying and all?” There was a sharp clang, and our seatbelts seized our throats as I backed into the trashcans, a little too late with the brakes. “She’s not dying,” I said as I tried to pull away from the trashcans and back out again. “That’s just something old people say,” I told him, but almost got clipped by a car I hadn’t noticed speeding past my driveway. *** Over the next few weeks it became clear that this wasn’t just a joke (at least to Grandma), and it wasn’t just a saying either—it became a regular performance. That following Saturday I answered a knock at the door to find the UPS guy shoving a clipboard and pen into my hand, while a package as tall as I was rested on the porch. I blindly signed the form he held in front of me, and examined the postage label: “To Norma Reeves,” that would be Grandma, “From Frederick and Sons Funeral Parlor.” She had ordered herself a coffin, for Christ’s sake. Luckily, I got that one stored in the garage before Stephen could get home from his sleepover, and before my wife needed to use the car to drive to her sister’s. I decided then to take some action and get her out into the world a little bit more to see some people, do something constructive, maybe take her mind off death. I started taking her to bingo night at the community center once a week. The second time we were there, the caller yelled out “G-52,” and Grandma slumped over the table in a dead faint. A slow ripple of terror passed through the room full of wrinkles and oxygen tanks as the closest players noticed her limp form and scooted away. I jumped up from my seat and seized her by the shoulders, drawing her head back so I could feel her pulse—it was still throbbing. The warm tickle on my hand told me she was still breathing. “Ambulance!” I shouted to the wizened faces around me. “Somebody, call 911, now!” The elderly just shrank away from 60

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our table, clutching their canes and walkers dearly, or shoving the tubes even deeper into their nostrils and wheezing in deep pulls of oxygen. The white-haired lady beside us pulled out a rosary and started crossing herself excessively, inciting others to start up a cacophony of “Have mercy, Jesus” and “Hail Mary, mother of God.” I hurried up from my seat, intending to run to the coat rack where my cell phone lay in the pocket of my jacket, but I tripped over the leg of Grandma’s chair in my haste, faceplanted myself on the floor, and knocked the chair slightly off balance. Grandma’s eyes sprang wide open as she tilted into the air and came back down again, clutching the table for balance. I looked up at her in disbelief as she took in the scene around her. “I’d say we ought to go then,” she nodded at me, getting up from her chair and shuffling calmly to the door. I grabbed her purse and my jacket and followed her out, not daring to look up as I exited. *** Despite my reassurances that it was all just a big joke, that Grandma’s sense of humor was starting to fail her in her old age, Stephen began to spend more and more time with her. If we let him, I think he’d have stayed home from school just to follow her around with a pillow to catch the dead body whenever it fell. At least two nights a week I’d come home to him running up to me, announcing that she was dead, which always turned out to mean that she had sprawled herself out on the sofa, her bed, the lawn, etc., and refused to move or open her eyes. At first, these notifications were given with tears and hysterics from my son, who feared she really was dead. On the weekends, when I was home all day, he started following me around with this funny, desperate look on his face. “You’re not going to die too, are you dad?” “Of course not, I’m perfectly healthy—just look at these muscles.” The latter half of my answer was supposed to be a joke—I hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in two years—but Stephen didn’t laugh. He seemed to take the sight of my flabby bicep as confirmation that his father was indeed deteriorating at a rapid rate. Berkeley Fiction Review

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*** “You’ve got to stop all this, Ma,” I demanded one night after Stephen had emptied all the gadgets out of his old Batman tool belt, and replaced the carriers with five different kinds of pills he found in the medicine cabinet. He said he wanted to be ready for me, “Just in case I should need a life-saving antidote at any moment.” “You’re driving Stephen nuts, he doesn’t even know all of this isn’t real.” “Stop what, Ben?” she asked innocently, driving her knitting needle into a ball of yarn, and rocking back and forth in her chair. “Stop pretending to die!” I nearly screamed. “It’s not funny, Grandma.” “What can I say? When you know, you know,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap and humming “Amazing Grace” as she rocked back and forth. I threw up my hands and started to leave the room, but she stopped me at the doorway with a moment of insight. “You know I can’t live forever, right?” I stared back at her wordlessly and shrugged. “I don’t belong in this world anymore. Hell, I don’t even know what this world is,” she continued, waving a hand around the room to take in the TV set with its seven blinking lights, my twenty inch desktop monitor open to the latest digital issue of the New York Times, and the electric fireplace burning at the touch of a button. “That doesn’t mean this world doesn’t still want you, Ma,” I told her, but she just shook her head and went back to her knitting. I knew there was something there that I didn’t understand, but I needed to leave the room before the tears hit my face. That night I dreamed of Grandma facing the mountain lion she’d once scared away from my childhood. I was back to my ten-year-old self, playing with my Lincoln logs in the living 62

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room, when the beast came up to the front porch where Grandma had been sitting with her face to the sun. Through the screen door I saw Grandma’s eyes open and lock with the cat’s. It stared back at her, and then exposed its talon-like teeth with a hideous snarl and swat of its massive paw. But this time, Grandma didn’t get up and start telling it off, or shoo it away from us back into the woods. Without even raising an elbow from her armrests, she nodded to the animal and closed her eyes again, face lifted to the sun, and that’s when the beast pounced. The screams of the little boy echoed into my bedroom as I woke up, seizing the covers in sweaty fists, and sinking into my wife’s terrified embrace. *** Three months from her first incident on Stephen’s birthday, I decided to throw a small get together for Grandma’s own birthday. I kept the guest list small, only inviting a few of her close neighbors from around her old house, who each came with their own personal caretaker to help them distinguish between what was edible and what was decoration on the buffet table we put out. I’d warned grandma to be on her best behavior, that this was a happy occasion, and she should celebrate her ninety-eight years of life now, rather than trying to put herself in the grave. She waved this all away with a flutter of her hand, but I had high hopes she’d make it through the event without an incident, when she walked into the living room, proudly sporting the bright blue and yellow party hat Stephen had made for her. She opened her presents without a single sign of death (“New knitting needles, how lovely”), placed bites of cake daintily into her mouth (“Why, it’s even better than your last, Maria”), and even smiled at her old friends. I could tell the party was wearing down around 7:45, when Grandma’s old friend, Gloria, told the same story about receiving letters from her son’s ghost long after he had died in Vietnam for the third time in an hour. The other friend, Bethany, fell asleep right at the table, and was whisked off to the bathroom minutes later by her caretaker when we all noticed a peculiar stench emanating from her body. That was the cue to wrap things up. Bethany was wheeled out of the house, smiling to herself, as her caretaker apologized profusely; Gloria parted from us with the promise to come back some day and tell us about her son, “the great soldier.” Berkeley Fiction Review

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Grandma was right there at the door, wringing their hands in formal goodbyes when they all left, but by the time we had stuck all the dishes in the sink and cleaned the wrapping paper and confetti off of the floor, she was nowhere to be found. I assumed she had turned in for the night, exhausted after all the excitement, but I didn’t find her in her room. Nor was she in the bathroom, her rocking chair by the TV, or hiding in any of the other bedrooms. I rushed from room to room calling her name; I checked the closets, the attic, the basement, and had even started lifting up the bedskirts in my room, when I heard Stephen calling from outside. “She’s here, dad. I found her!” My momentary relief quickly turned to unhealthy heart palpitations when I discovered where “here” was. She was playing dead again, this time in the middle of the road. I came out the door to find her spread-eagled on the pavement, with Stephen kneeling down right next to her head, trying to wake her up. I started running towards them. Before I could even get to the end of the driveway, the same car that had almost clipped me that morning on Stephen’s birthday came barreling down the street. My voicebox froze—I couldn’t call out to them. For a second, everything went black as my heartbeat increased to a painful vibration tunneling through my chest. I heard the screech of a horn, and my vision opened up enough to see pinpricks of red light disappearing in the distance. Then I saw the trashcans laying dented on their sides and the tire tracks in my yard, while my boy stood up, still whole and without a scratch. I was at his side in seconds. “Are you alright? Are you sure?” he nodded yes to me, but looked solemnly back at Grandma who was still lying in the road unfazed. I’d finally had enough. “Go back inside and tell your mother what happened.” “But, dad, shouldn’t we do something about—“ “I’ll deal with Grandma, just go.” As soon as I’d seen him get to the safety of the sidewalk, I hauled Grandma up by her armpits. Her body sagged against mine, and I could feel her heart beating against my ribs. 64

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“Wake up, Grandma,” I shouted into her face. She ignored me. “Wake up!” I repeated sternly, giving her as gentle of a shake as I could manage in my fury. “Do you know you almost got my son killed? Do you even care?” Her eyes began to flutter open. “Am I dead?” she asked, looking around, confused. “No! Absolutely not, but you could have been.” “Now Ben, don’t get so angry. I really think today’s the day I should—“ “No, it is not. You’re not dying today, no matter how much you want to. I’ve had enough of this,” I told her, dragging her back into the house too fast for her shuffling feet to keep up, so I lifted her frail body into my arms entirely, and proceeded to carry her into her room. I laid her down on the bed and tucked the covers in tightly around her, hoping to prevent an escape. “Not today, not today,” she began mocking me in a whisper that soon turned into a wail of despair. I closed her door behind me and didn’t look back. *** I woke up late the next day to a brilliant light shining through my blinds, warming the empty space next to me in the bed. Today was Sunday, which meant Maria had taken Stephen to softball practice. It’d just be Grandma and me at home today. A wave of guilt passed over me, as I thought back to the night before, how ashamed she must have felt with me dragging her into the house like that for the whole family to see. I sighed and let my head fall into my hands, deciding finally that I’d have to apologize. When I knocked on her door, there was no answer. I pushed it open quietly—her bed was empty. This time she’d left a clue: In place of a warm body, there was a newspaper folded open on her bed with an advertisement for “sprawling, well kept funeral plots; reserve your spot today, and plan for the rest of your life,” taking up half the page. The number of a cab company was written in her own handwriting in the small margin. I tucked the newspaper under my arm, and grabbed my car keys. I reached the cemetery in ten minutes, and had to admit Berkeley Fiction Review

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the advertisement wasn’t lying—the place was kinda beautiful. I walked around for a bit, noting the grand tombstones and their wordy inscriptions, before I came to one that was completely blank. Lying on the patch of grass in front of it was Grandma. “What are you doing out here, Ma?” She didn’t answer, so I pulled my jacket off, spread it on the grass like a blanket, and laid myself down right next to her. We stayed like that for a while, the warm sunshine caressing my face until I was almost asleep, and then I felt a hand on my own. I opened my eyes, and Grandma was sitting up, looking down at me. “Well, good morning,” I said. “This your new home?” She gave me a sad smile. “It will be. I bought this plot just this morning. I want to be buried here.” “You know you’re not going to die yet,” I said cautiously, still unsure whether she was putting on a show, or had come back to reality for the moment. “I know,” she sighed. “But I want to… I set that stove fire myself when Daniel went out to get groceries.” I was horrified at the confession. Eccentric I could accept, but suicidal? That was too much. “Oh, calm down, Ben” she coaxed, pulling me into her arms. “It was a stupid idea, but I’m an old woman, I’ve had a long life.” “But that doesn’t mean it has to be over.” “Do you remember your parents at all?” she asked suddenly. I shook my head no. How could I? They’d died so early. “Well, I do. Do you know how hard it is to bury your own kid? To watch your friends get picked off one by one by heart failure, strokes, cancer? I didn’t have anyone to grow old with—even 66

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your grandpa died forty years ago in the war, and I’ve just had to keep on plodding along in this world I don’t belong in.” I thought about what she was saying and tried to picture my life without Maria, without Stephen, without her, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t know what that kind of loss would feel like, so I remained silent. I could feel her eyes searching my face the way they’d always used to when I came home from school with a bad report card or a cut lip that I was too ashamed to tell her about. Somehow she always knew, always knew what to say to break through to me. “Death’s a hard thing when you’re not prepared for it,” she warned me. This time I wasn’t so sure it’d make any difference. Eventually, she agreed to come home with me if I agreed to bury her here. She said she’d stop trying to die if only I could promise I would be at her funeral to see her off. I said I’d be there. *** All through work the next day I kept thinking about what she’d said, and about my promise. I started replaying the mountain lion dream over and over in my head, watching Grandma just nod at death, while I was powerless to do anything for her. How could she just accept such a fate? The more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder if her warning in the cemetery the other day had really been meant for me. When I got home that afternoon, Stephen greeted me at the door to ask if he could go over to the Mills’ house to play catch. “Sure, sure,” I replied absently, still thinking about Grandma as I watched him race upstairs to grab his favorite mitt. “Oh yeah,” he said with a look of sudden remembrance on his face, pausing at the top of the stairs. “Grandma’s dead again,” he informed me. I rolled my eyes. I thought we’d resolved this. “Where’s the body this time?” “In the living room, on the couch,” Stephen replied and disappeared out the door. Berkeley Fiction Review

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Adam Crystal

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the living room was the sudden quietness of it. The TV was off; my wife wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t running the vacuum cleaner over every imaginable surface. Even the old clock on the mantelpiece had stopped tickingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; someone must have forgotten to wind it last night. I took the thing in my own hands, peeled off the back panel, rearranged the hands to form the correct time, and twisted the cog in my hand until it was tight. I set it back on the mantle and turned to see Grandma sleeping on the couch. Maybe this time Stephen had just caught her in a nap, I thought. Her body looked much more relaxed than any of the other times she had faked death. A magazine and her glasses were still clutched in her hands, as if she planned to wake up and keep reading about the health benefits of puzzles and strategy games. I tiptoed over to her, trying not to wake her up, as I sat down on the edge of the couch next to her and took a good look at the strong face of the woman who raised me. She was smiling slightly, whatever dream she held in her head now must be a pleasant one. Perhaps she was holding her own son, my father, in her arms again. Perhaps she was reuniting with all those old friends she had lost. I placed my hand over hers just as she had done with mine in the cemetery.

Madison Crystal

Berkeley Fiction Review

Adam Crystal

Madison Crystal

Berkeley Fiction Review

After takeoff, in the earliest foray of the ascent, the nose dipped like a chalice toward Lake Michigan only to hiccup and regain loft somewhere above Indiana, depositing free drinks in laps where they remained even after the plane had reached cruising altitude, giving the entire cabin the musty aroma of a drunkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brassiere. The woman next to you has been sobbing quietly since takeoff, looking across the aisle at her husband and son. But landing is now imminent. The plane caroms downward toward the rippled sheet of fog, the jets roaring like truck engines braking on a precipice of damp November air.

Samarra CONDICT MOORE

Five hundred feet above LaGuardia, the low fog ripples, illuminated from below. You run your tongue over the stitched crack in your lower lip, feeling the texture of the sutures and the coarse skin beneath. The Boeing dips and swings in the crosswinds, approximating its final descent. The stewardesses are strapped down and have been since takeoff. They are an aging lot, thick in the hips and heavy on the makeup, impassive as headstones. The flight was delayed and cancelled and then delayed again due to inclement weather, then cancelled, then put off when the captain rejected the plane. The crew had come in from Buffalo an hour earlier, blasting through a narrow line of thunderstorms bookended by tornadoes scooping hail. All flights east had been held or cancelled with the exception of the United LaGuardia anchor, booked solid per usual with blue suits toting black roll-ons, the global services crowd who would fly unwavering through hurricanes and sandstorms and oscillating amphibian constellations without batting eyelashes or disengaging from their Bluetooth headsets. The second plane arrived glistening on the tarmac in the thunderous rain, fresh off a leg from Las Vegas. Upon boarding you were coddled with free beverages, even in coach, and told to remain seated with belts fastened for the duration of the flight. The captain informed you there were lightning storms above Michigan and funnel clouds in New York. Heavy turbulence was likely. Visibility would be poor.

Condict Moore

You were attacked but you know not by whom. It was someone familiar, someone you had met before. The attack occurred a week ago in Manhattan. You were standing outside a nightclub you had never been to before, in a neighborhood you did not frequent, begging a cigarette from a diminutive brunette in a striped tube dress. The blow came from the side and landed behind one ear, directly on the lymph node. It knocked you off balance and you fell against the building and then onto the sidewalk where you looked up and saw your assailantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face, but only for an instant, before the toe of his boot struck your cheek. When you awoke one eye was swollen shut and your lower lip was split down the middle like a cut grape and you were immobilized, strapped to a board. They asked you who did it, and you could not recall, though you were sure you had met him before. The police report described him as average height, in his late twenties, wearing a blue shirt, blue pants and a baseball cap. Witnesses said the man had continued to kick you in the head and chest even after your were unconscious, until onlookers had pulled him away. He had fled on foot. The plane breaks through the fog and for a moment, the soil of Queens is visible, impossibly close and impossibly brown. Then the fuselage jerks upward and the engines groan and whirr and suddenly you are ascending again at breakneck speed through the fog above LaGuardia. The woman at your side cries out in terror, bracing herself against the armrest. For a moment everything is in doubt, but then the plane emerges from the fog and performs a lazy loop around Manhattan, banking softly. The captain says there was traffic on the runway, but it is all clear now. You will land shortly. Berkeley Fiction Review

Samarra CONDICT MOORE

Condict Moore

Since the attack you have been conscious of the rage all around you. You feel it now in the roar of the jet engines above the low rippling fog. Something you did drew that rage toward you, channeled it into your attacker and brought it down upon your own head. Some necessary balance was restored. Down the aisle in first class you can make out the blond, slightly cocked head of your colleague and partner, Jack Seel, who is clearly unperturbed by the dilemma of the low fog. It occurs to you that Jack may have attacked you. He is average in height, and known to wear hats at night that make him appear younger than his thirty six years. There is a palpable intensity beneath his calm demeanor, a quality of restrained impulse that makes him effective in front of a jury. The idea is absurd, but you resolve not to disclose to Jack where you are staying tonight. The two of you have been commuting to New York on a weekly basis for the past year. You know that Jack will be somewhere in midtown, close to the firm’s office. So you booked a room at a boutique hotel downtown. You reach up and feel the bruise under your right eye. The neurologist recommended another CT scan when the bruise appeared, just to be sure there was no hemorrhaging beneath the skull. The results came back normal. The two hemispheres of gray matter appeared distinct and uncompromised. You are medically intact, but your emotions are all over the map; post-concussion syndrome laced with foreboding, the conviction that the strange occurrences of a week ago are still awaiting their denouement. And now you are returning to New York, the scene of the attack, with your wounds still fresh. You would have stayed home if you could but Jack would never have let you, not with a virgin accounting expert and a trial date three weeks away. Even before the accident you did not trust yourself in New York. You have too many connections here. You go to bed at nine with good intentions only to wake up four hours later and find yourself walking the streets of Chinatown on your way to see a girl about a plastic bag. Before you know it the sun is rising on an impromptu congress in your hotel room that has devoured the minibar and the contents of the plastic bag to a soundtrack of revolving iPhones, with a shower cap hugging the smoke detector and the bathroom lit up for surgery and time no longer a continu72

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ous flow but chopped into segments of high and not so high and finally a single hour of fitful sleep before the wake-up call, and the reminder wake-up call, and then a scalding shower and mouthwash before the long conference room slog. It is a familiar pattern, the kind of maddening happenstance that is too predictable to be anything but calculated somewhere in the divided hemispheres of your addict brain. The pilot eases into a second approach. The wing flaps curl downwards at an impossible angle, shuddering on their bolts and rivets. Once again the wings seek to penetrate the rippling skin of the fog and once again the fog resists. The woman at your side continues to sob uncontrollably. Most of the others are calm. Jack’s head bobs over a magazine twelve rows in front of you, just beyond the first class curtain. The steel carriage groans, despondent, its seats chattering. Finally, the engine speeds up and the wings penetrate the fog like a knife through meringue, filling the cabin with the bright orange strobe of hazard lights. When the ground appears it is immediate and near, not runway but brown grass and soil. The woman screams again with even greater abandon. The plane tilts on its axis, then rights itself, then tilts again. And then it is on the ascent once more, roaring upward back into the fog and the atmosphere above Queens. This time the captain does not bother with announcements. It occurs to you that the plane has been in the air for going on three hours after only a brief pause at O’Hare, not long enough to clean the aisles much less refuel after the Vegas leg. This adds up to two takeoffs and two aborted landings on a single tank. Whatever fuel the plane carries must be getting low. The pattern cannot go on indefinitely without consequences. At some point you will find ground. The plane banks softly against the Manhattan skyline, showing its undercarriage to the clubs and house parties and meet-ups, the cabarets and strip clubs, all that liquor, all those drugs and cigarettes and lap dances consumed by the boroughs on a nightly basis, the collective vices of a million young men, one of whom attacked you outside a club without reason or provocation; struck you with a closed fist behind one ear and then kicked you in the head and chest until onlookers intervened, continued to kick you even after you were unconscious as if intending to inflict Berkeley Fiction Review

Condict Moore

not only pain but lasting damage, to kill or maim you.

the damage.

You close your eyes and place yourself back in the moment, lying on your back and looking up at your assailant. His face is distinct but polymorphic. First it is the face of the drummer in your former band, the one with the girlfriend who would get drunk and hit on you without provocation. Then it is the face of your cousin’s ex-husband, the one who treated you kindly but in whom you sensed a veiled animosity, a kind of instinctual repulsion with no apparent cause. Then it is your father’s face. Your father as he appeared in pictures from around the time you were born, when he was still a surgical resident working eighteen-hour days at the hospital down the block. And then the boot strikes your cheek and all goes black.

“Can you do something about that black eye?” he says. “Jesus. What kind of operation are we running here?” He smiles to indicate a joke, but his tone is dead serious. Your official story is a mountain biking accident, but no one believes you, especially Jack. You have not been on a mountain bike in twenty years. Your skin is paler than opaline. And it is late November.

When you open your eyes the wheels are hitting the tarmac and the brakes have engaged. *** “I booked you a room at the Palace,” Jack Seel says. You stand together in the taxi line, holding leather trial bags. “We need you there on time tomorrow. I am not going to prep Douglas alone.” You are meeting with the accounting expert tomorrow in a glass-walled conference room near Times Square. The expert’s job will be to explain why your client’s audited financial statements are fairly stated in accordance with GAAP. Seel will put the expert on at trial, but it is your job to prepare him, to know the details necessary to your defense. “If it’s all the same to you I may stay downtown,” you say. “I can cab it up early and meet you for breakfast.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Seel says. “Next time we can both stay downtown together. Maybe hit some bars. But tomorrow’s meeting is critical. It’s our first audience with Douglas, our first chance to tell our story. I want you nearby.” The desk clerk at the Palace is blonde and gorgeous, with rosy cheeks and piano- key teeth. She upgrades Jack to a king suite and places you in a standard queen room ten floors lower. As you wait for the elevators Jack looks you up and down, surveying 74

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“I’ll do my best to cover it up,” you say. Your room is smaller than a suite but still expansive in comparison to the shoebox you reserved downtown. The carpet is beige and stain free. The television is on when you arrive, broadcasting nearby attractions. You switch it off and search the bathroom for the complementary shower cap. There are two smoke detectors, one in the bathroom and the other above the bed. You shut the bathroom door, stand on the bed and apply the shower cap. Then you crack the window and sit in an armchair smoking a cigarette and looking out at the steeple of a church below and the legs of pedestrians beneath the plywood scaffolding that shrouds the sidewalk. There is nothing more depressing than a luxury hotel. Downtown is better for you, the cramped charm of the village or Soho, where the wealth is less starkly on display. Up here you are left with vacancies to fill. You put out your cigarette and throw the butt into the open air above the street. Then you walk over to the mini fridge and survey the offerings. Scotch. Vodka. Tequila. Gin. White wine. Red wine. Sparkling water. Tonic. No Bourbon. You remove the bottle of scotch. Then you take off your coat and shoes and shirt and change into jeans and a light sweater. You go into the bathroom and splash water on your face, inspecting the stitches in your lip, and the raccoon bruise beneath your right eye. Maybe you should find a drugstore and look for something to cover it up. Instead you go out in the hallway and look for the ice machine. An hour later the brown liquor is gone and you are on vodka sodas, and then gin. You save the gin for last, and then the white wine. It is nearly eleven and you should go to bed. The pack of cigarettes is half empty on the cocktail table by the window. Berkeley Fiction Review

not only pain but lasting damage, to kill or maim you.

the damage.

Condict Moore

In ten hours you will be sitting in a conference room overlooking Times Square, leading two auditors and your partner Jack Seel through financial statement disclosures. In the distance you can see the elegant spire of the Empire State. The plague falls in place like a roulette ball. Love fades away. *** In the taxi your mind engages in a series of reveries, not quite remembrances, painting vignettes against the backdrop of New York City streets. You see windowpanes covered by snow, a young boy and his father digging tunnels through the drifts the ploughs left behind. You see a girl in stockings by a window, her narrow back bare in the blue light of dawn. At her feet a turntable spins a record, but you do not hear the music. You are deliriously happy, and want for nothing. You get out near Sixth and Houston and walk east. There are others on the sidewalk but they do not look at you, or quickly look away. Your black eye defines and protects you. You are a pariah in the foot traffic of Houston Street, going to see a girl about a bag. Your regular connection is out of town, so you have to get creative. You reach out to a girl you have not seen in nine years. Her name is Kamila and she is a friend of a friend from a previous life. You are surprised to find out that her phone number is still the same, and she still lives in the same apartment above a Laundromat on Delancey Street. Your errand is no longer negotiable, but it saddens you. The sadness flows from your skin into the atmosphere around you. Kamila is painting her toes when you arrive. She opens the door in panties and a slip with a cigarette in hand, eyeing your black eye and stitched lip. She has high cheekbones and green, blood shot eyes beneath a shelf of black bang. Her small breasts are visible under the hem of her slip. Red roses inked on her forearms. You used to hang out with her quite a bit back in the day. The apartment smells strongly of cannabis. The far windows are open but a haze lingers by the overhead lights. A young man in overalls sits on the sofa in the middle of the room, with an unplugged guitar in his lap. Kamila smiles and blows smoke into 76

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the hallway and then disappears into a back room. You swing the apartment door shut and make eye contact with the man on the sofa. He looks to be at least a decade younger than you and he is almost certainly sleeping with Kamila. It is apparent from his proprietary slouch. “Friend of Mila, where are you from?” he says, his voice cracking. “Chicago.” “What happened to your eye?” “I was attacked. Last week, here in New York.” You never slept with Kamila. You kissed her once, almost accidentally. But you resolve not to make that clear to the young man on the sofa. “Who attacked you?” “I don’t remember. It was someone I know, but I can’t remember who. I was knocked out.” “Shit. Amnesia?” “Something like that.” “And what are you doing back here? Are you looking for him? The one who attacked you?” “I’m here on business.” The young man looks at you like you have said something profound. His mind works. He has a handlebar mustache and a beard that has been groomed in a period style. He wears heavy black boots. It occurs to you that he might be the one who attacked you. “You should chill out, man. Have a hit,” he says, holding out a glass pipe and a lighter. You take the pipe and hit it once, then again, before handing it back. His eyes are deep set and intense, shifting up and down your clothing and playing a snare beat on your black eye. “What do you do, man?” he asks. “For a living?” Berkeley Fiction Review

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“I’m an attorney. A trial lawyer.” “No shit.” He hits the pipe himself, holding the smoke in and blowing a single, well-defined smoke ring. It hovers in the dusty air above the sofa, waves lazily, and then dissipates. “You look like you could use a vacation.” Kamila returns from the back room wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. She throws you a plastic bag with three vials inside, each half-filled with white powder. You catch the bag and pocket it and toss her a roll of fifteen twenties in a rubber band. The details were pre-negotiated. You thank her and move toward the door. “You want to smoke a bowl?” she says. “Me and Kenny were going to finish this bowl and then bump a few.” “I’d like to, but I gotta go. I have a meeting in the morning.” You realize as you say this how absurd it sounds. It is nearly midnight and you have just purchased enough cocaine to fuel a triple crown. Kamila is looking at you quizzically, her green eyes sparkling. She is less high then Kenny but clearly stoned. You do not want to talk to her, or anyone else. You want to go back to your room and finish what you started. “He wants to go, Mila,” Kenny says. And now you want to stay. “I’ll smoke a bit,” you say. “But then I have to get back.” Kamila smiles and walks over to the sofa and sits down next to Kenny, taking the pipe from his hand and inspecting the roach. You sit in a chair opposite them. She dumps the contents of the pipe onto the table and pulls a bag out of her pocket and repacks it. Then she leans back and lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag and looks at you. “How’s Marcy?” she says. “Not sure. We’re not in touch anymore.”

“I kind of hated her for it,” she says. “Who’s Marcy?” Kenny says. He hits the pipe, blowing a similar smoke ring to the one before. “An old friend of ours,” Kamila says. “From another time.” She returns to the sofa and sits down, throwing you a half smile. She has not changed much in the nine years since you saw her last, other than the air of pain that surrounds her and the thin lines that border her mouth. “You know who you remind me of?” Kenny says, offering you the pipe. You waive it off. He hands it to Kamila and you watch her pull her hair back and hit the pipe, holding the smoke in for a long time and then releasing it in a plume toward the window. She and Marcy used to be best friends. They shared clothes and told people they were sisters. Love fades away. “You are like the guy in that book. Appointment in Samarra,” Kenny says, undeterred. Kamila groans and passes you the pipe. You hit it again, but only once. The earlier hits have taken root in your mind, and you are already up a notch. You feel centered, more present than before. “I haven’t read it,” you say. “You should,” Kenny says, admonishing. “It is a lesson in realism. One of the early examples. And it’s fierce. It takes place in this small town in Pennsylvania where everyone knows each other’s business. The main character owns this Cadillac dealership and he is successful, you know, with a hot wife and a country club membership and all that nineteen-thirties shit. Kind of like you.”

“Really? I always figured you two would get married.”

“I’m not married.”

“It didn’t work out that way.”

“Well he kind of looks like you. I mean, the way I see him.”

“She disappeared on me, you know? Both of you did. One day I tried to find her and she was just gone. No message, no call, 78

nothing.” Kamila pauses, remembering. You want to tell her. You are about to but then she stands up and walks to the window.

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“Don’t be dull,” Kamila says. She reaches in her pocket, fishing for another vial. Berkeley Fiction Review

“Really? I always figured you two would get married.”

“I’m not married.”

“It didn’t work out that way.”

“Well he kind of looks like you. I mean, the way I see him.”

“She disappeared on me, you know? Both of you did. One day I tried to find her and she was just gone. No message, no call, 78

nothing.” Kamila pauses, remembering. You want to tell her. You are about to but then she stands up and walks to the window.

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“Don’t be dull,” Kamila says. She reaches in her pocket, fishing for another vial. Berkeley Fiction Review

“Kenny is writing a novel. He is a killer musician but he won’t stick to one thing. He wants to be a renaissance man.” You were a musician too when you were Kenny’s age, before you went to rehab and applied to law school to find structure and clean up. But the law only brought about a momentary break in pattern. Soon the old habits crept in, aggravated by the stress of the profession. Now you have less time but more resources. You find yourself using again with a different kind of abandon, as if seeking not just a momentary escape but a more lasting resolution. “For some reason this cat just loses it,” Kenny says, ignoring Kamila. “He becomes unhinged. Things start to happen to him. He publicly insults someone and gets in a fight with someone else. He starts flirting with other women in front of his wife, and he tries to sleep with some of them. Meanwhile, he is totally paranoid of losing her to another man. It is like he is determined to sabotage everything that is valuable to him.” You pull a cigarette from your own pack and watch Kenny, who is looking at you earnestly, fully occupied by his own narrative. You have the feeling you have seen him somewhere before, but can’t place when or where. You try to imagine him in a baseball cap. “Then it just escalates from there,” he says. “But it is fucking good. It’s in the other room. I’d let you borrow it if you weren’t from out of town.” “Jesus,” Kamila says. “For Christ’s sake. I don’t want to talk about the book. I want to hear about my old friends. My disappearing soul mates. I want to hear about Marcy.” Kamila is looking at you hard, waiting for an answer. It is the reason she took your call and agreed to meet you tonight. The reason she asked you to stay awhile. And you know now that you will have to tell her, that you have no choice, although you are half drunk and stoned and it is the last thing you want to do now, in this apartment, with Kenny in the room and vials in your pocket and Mila on the sofa emitting long, sad phrases from her pretty green eyes. You should have left when you had the chance. “I don’t want to talk about the book. I want to talk about Marcy,” she says again, more insistent. Then she stands up and 80

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leaves the room. You sit and smoke and look at Kenny. He runs his palm through his hair. It shivers once, before settling in the same place. You wonder where he came from, who his ancestors were, whether they had similar mustaches and beards. “I should go get it,” he says. “She won’t mind. I want to read you the beginning, the foreword. I think if I just read it you will understand what I mean.” “I have to go,” you say. “I really don’t have time.” “It’ll only take a minute,” he says. It is not yet midnight but you want to make a stop on the way back to the hotel, a detour through Chinatown, to the same neighborhood you were in a week ago. You want to go back to Chinatown and stand on the sidewalk in front of the same nightclub and look for the brunette in the striped tube dress. Only by recreating these events will you discover the identity of your attacker, summon it like a genie from the recesses of your concussed brain. “I should take off now,” you say, looking around for your sweater. But Kenny has already left the room. You are alone, only feet from the door, and you consider slipping out, rushing downstairs and flagging a taxi and disappearing on Kamila again like you and Marcy did a decade ago. But a moment later Kenny returns with the book in hand and Kamila in tow. *** “Death speaks: There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to the market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, just now when I was in the market-place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture...” Kenny stands to one side of the coffee table, reading aloud from the book. Together the three of you have consumed a second bowl of pot. A vial of cocaine has been poured out onto the glass table and is awaiting organization. Kamila sits on the floor at your feet, with her head resting on your knee. She passes you a lit cigaBerkeley Fiction Review

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rette and you take it and inhale and pass it back down to her. “Now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there death will not find me.” Kamila leans her head back and laughs and throws the lit cigarette in Kenny’s direction. He ducks and stubs it out with one boot on the concrete floor. “The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and, as fast as the horse could gallop, he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning? That was not a threatening gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.” Kenny stops reading and closes the book. “I don’t get it,” Kamila says. “Who had the appointment?” “The servant,” Kenny says. “The servant fled to Samarra to escape death, but did not realize he already had an appointment with death there, in Samarra.” “I still don’t get it,” she says. “It’s like we are all in Samarra, just waiting to die,” Kenny says. “And that’s the whole book. The one I was telling you about earlier.” Kamila sighs, unimpressed. Kenny has the story all wrong. He puts the book on the table and sits back down on the sofa, glaring at Kamila, whose head has slid down your knee and come to rest in your lap. Then he stands up and heads for the back room, taking the book with him, leaving the two of you alone with a small mountain of cocaine. Kamila reaches up and rubs your calf, her eyes half-closed, marking the drum beat of Louis Hayes. She was a DJ in college, spinning Horace Silver, Freddie Hubbard and Hank Mobley for a hundred lonely souls over the airwaves of Providence, Rhode Island. Out of college she took a job at an art gallery and played 82

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keyboards in a few bands, selling weed on the side. You met her around then, through Marcy, as a drug connection. But you also became friends. One spring afternoon, you and Marcy came over to Kamila’s apartment, the same one you are sitting in now. The plan was to go to dinner, but the three of you began talking and smoking Kamila’s weed, working your way through a bottle of red wine. You ended up remaining there for a week straight, calling in sick to work, ordering liquor and cartons of cigarettes from the package store down the block, rotating platters on Mila’s turntable, post-bop and delta blues and sorrowful new wave, sleeping in shifts, watching the light flatten and dissipate into violet and black and then blue again, kissing occasionally but not much, talking endlessly and in unison, analyzing the entirety of it all, breaking it down to nothing, promising everything, plotting your lives together. You remember that week now and know with absolute certainty that Kamila is remembering it too, although Marcy is not there anymore, and you have only Kenny, and it will never be like that again, not with Kenny and his mustache reading aloud from books about Samarra, and it is bittersweet and sad too, how time passes and love fades away. The memory of that week centers you for a moment and for the first time in months you feel present, really present, sitting here in this apartment above a Laundromat on Delancey Street listening to Lee Morgan with Kamila’s head in your lap. The moonlight pours in from the open casement window. There is laughter down the block. You will not go back to Chinatown tonight because there is nothing for you to find there. There is no appointment, no Samarra. There is only you and Kamila and the memory of you and Kamila and Marcy, sweet Marcy standing at the window in stockings and nothing else, looking out at the violet light of dawn. Marcy as she once was and always will be, although she has been dead nine years come April. You are about to tell Kamila this when she leans forward and begins dividing the powder into parallel lines. *** “This is your reminder wake-up call,” the voice says in an autoBerkeley Fiction Review

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mated British accent. “It is eight nineteen a.m., and twenty seven degrees.” The curtains are open and it is brighter than heaven here in your Midtown hotel room. Flurries drift in from the cracked window above the radiator, mingling with Park Avenue traffic. There are bottles and glasses everywhere, open bags of cookies, soiled napkins and remnants of cured meats and soft, stinky cheeses, as if you hosted a cocktail party of messy Europeans, although you recall no visitors. You put the receiver down and look at your watch. In ten minutes you will meet Jack Seel in the lobby for a quick breakfast before hopping a taxi to Times Square. In the bathroom you turn the shower on, cold, and brush your teeth. Then you lather up and shave your face. You feel surprisingly awake and not yet terrible, although you know that will come soon enough. You throw on your suit, leaving the shirt unbuttoned and the tie loose for now. Then you quickly pack your briefcase and duffel, check the outlets for chargers, scan the room for anything incriminating. Your eyes settle on a vial of white powder in the ashtray by the window. It remains unopened and undisturbed, somehow spared by the melee that surrounds it. You take the vial and place it in an interior pocket of your briefcase. “You’re five minutes late,” Seel says, standing by a mirrored wall in the hotel lobby, tapping his Armitron. “You have the binders?” “I messengered them over last night,” you say. “They should be waiting for us when we get there.” Seel looks you over for signs, sniffs the air in front of you, pats you on the shoulder. “You’ve been smoking,” he says. “And you smell like booze.” “I had a few last night in the room,” you say. It is a true statement, though with material omissions. You feel a rumble in your stomach and the first whispers of the headache to come. “I ordered you coffee and an omelet,” Seel says. “I figured you might need it. Let’s go over the outline one more time before we head over. Douglas is running a bit late. It concerns me. An auditor should be punctilious.” An hour later you arrive in the conference room and are 84

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relieved to find the binders waiting, although Douglas has still not shown. Seel pulls up the shade on the wall of glass overlooking Times Square. You excuse yourself and head for the bathroom, bringing your briefcase with you. The bathroom is expansive and modern, with elaborate vistas of motion-sensitive light. You enter a stall and close the door behind you. You take off your coat and look at the water in the toilet and wait for it and then throw up the omelet and half the coffee in one burst, clearing your throat loudly afterwards. You close the lid and sit down with your briefcase in your lap and open the inside pocket and remove the vial and open it and then take your keys from your pocket and dip one into the powder and pull it out again. A pyramid of white. You inhale and repeat and stand up, rubbing your nose. Sweet Jesus. Then you open the lid again and pour the remainder of the powder and flush. When you exit the stall you nearly bump into Jack Seel, who is addressing the urinal in front of you. “Douglas is here,” he says. “We should get busy if we want to make our flight.” The morning goes smoothly. You are focused and alert, walking Douglas and Seel though the financial statement disclosures and supporting documents from the binders on the table, implanting the narrative, telling your story. For the most part Douglas seems to buy it, although he corrects you here and there with the irritable precision common to his profession. The biggest sticking points are the related party transactions, which are disclosed in the financials but barely discussed in the work papers. Seel chirps in now and again to provide moral support. By lunchtime you are halfway through the binders and your head is screaming like a six alarm fire. Twice you have stood up to get more coffee and nearly thrown up in the garbage can, but you have managed to retain control. Douglas asks for an hour break to make a few calls and you agree immediately, before Seel can protest. “I’m going to get some air,” you tell him. Berkeley Fiction Review

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Times Square is bustling, equal parts tourists and business types, trudging through brown snow. You consult your phone for the first time since breakfast and find it ringing, an unfamiliar number with a New York area code. It occurs to you it might be Kamila, checking up on you. “Hello.” “Is this R. Pike?” “Speaking.” “This is detective Martinelli, NYPD.” You recognize his voice from the night you were attacked. He was somewhere above you in the hospital room, asking you questions and filling in boxes on a report. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Pike. But we picked up someone last night who fits the description of the one who assaulted you. There was a similar attack last night outside a club on Fourteenth Street.” “Who is it?” “I can’t tell you now, but I will later. I promise. Listen, are you in the city? We are putting a lineup together and we would like you to come by the precinct.” “I’m in the city but leaving this evening. And I’m in meetings all afternoon.” “Can you come now? We’re on Thirty-Fifth Street on the west side. We can have it ready in ten minutes. I am pretty sure this is the guy, but we need a reason to keep him here. A positive ID would go a long way.” “I can come now, but I only have ten or fifteen minutes, and then I need to get back here for my meetings.” “It’ll take five,” Martinelli says. “We can do the paperwork later, over the phone.” There are no taxis. It is lunch hour and snowing and the curbs are lined with men and women in gray trench coats with arms raised. The precinct is only seven blocks south and one block west, and you decide to walk it. It is not that cold but your soles 86

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are smooth and the footing precarious. Even so, you are there in less than ten minutes. Midtown’s south precinct occupies a low-slung brick building crouching in the shadows of prewar garment factories. Two dozen squad cars are parked out front. You are through the door before you remember the empty vial tucked in the pocket of your briefcase. “Can I help you?” The lady at the desk says, eyeing your swollen eye and stitched lip. She is young and black and unamused, but not unpretty. Her gun is exposed, holstered beneath one arm. “I am here to see Detective Martinelli.” “Take a seat over there and we’ll buzz him,” she says. “But hand me your bag first.” “Excuse me?” “You need to check your bag,” she says, handing you a yellow ticket with a number and reaching for your shoulder strap. You give her the bag and she places it in a numbered cubby behind the counter. Then she rolls her chair a few feet to her left and speaks into a microphone. “Detective Martinelli, your visitor is out front. Detective Martinelli.” The lineup is arranged on an elevated platform behind a one-way mirror, like on television. You stand next to Martinelli behind a more junior female officer who is sitting at a long counter, speaking into a microphone at the five men. “Turn and face the wall to your left,” she says. The men comply. “Now turn back to center.” Two of the men are the correct height and race but have beards and are dressed in ragged clothes like street urchins and are much too old, in their fifties or sixties even. They appear to have been pulled in off the street. The other three are younger, but one is Mexican and the other is extremely tall, well over six feet. Your attacker stands in the very middle of the lineup. You study his face, trying to determine if you know him from before or if he Berkeley Fiction Review

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is indeed a stranger, as the police suggest. “Do you see the one who attacked you?” Martinelli says. “Give me a moment,” you say. “Turn and face the wall to your right,” the female officer says. The men turn. Your attacker’s profile is exaggerated and utterly foreign to you, like something sketched on paper. You decide he is a stranger, that you never met him before that night. But he is definitely the one who attacked you, and now he has attacked someone else outside a club on Fourteenth Street, according to Detective Martinelli and the NYPD. You want to ask him why he did it, but you already know the answer. Some necessary balance was restored. “He’s not up there,” you say to Martinelli, shaking your head in mock disappointment. “He’s none of them.” You make it back to the conference room just as Douglas is returning for the afternoon session. Together you and Seel march him through the remaining financial statement disclosures, pointing out the good and minimizing the ugly. You feel better, more alive and less nauseated than before. By the end of the meeting you have nearly convinced yourself of your client’s positions and are optimistic about your chances at trial. Douglas too seems to have come around. You resolve to set up an interview with Douglas and the engagement partner to talk through the related party work papers.

hiding something from them, something essential to your character that they cannot fathom or touch. And whatever it is, they are furious that you are getting away with it. “We’re gonna kill those motherfuckers, aren’t we,” Douglas says, almost shouting, slapping Seel on the shoulder like an old college buddy. The two men laugh again and nearly embrace, before stepping into the hallway. When they are safely outside you open the inside pocket of your briefcase and remove the empty vial and drop it into the wastebasket by the window, looking down on the heads of the pedestrians below. It is no longer snowing, and many of their heads are bare. They are tourists, bankers, retirees, lawyers, marketing executives, artists, beauticians, and saints. They are lost, at least most of them are, in a hurry someplace, running toward or away from something only they can divine. You walk over to the conference table and collect the binders and put them back in the boxes in which they came.

“I see a few pimples but no major warts,” Douglas says, putting on his coat. He reaches out to shake your hand, but doesn’t quite look you in the eye. Instead he focuses on your bruised cheek and stitched lip. “You get in a scuffle with the wife?” he says. Seel emits a belly laugh. “I was attacked, here in New York,” you say. “It was unprovoked.” But Douglas is no longer listening. He has already reached out to shake Seel’s hand and whisper something in his ear, and it is apparent from their body language and demeanor that they are in league together against you, and have been all along. Your black eye sets you apart, but it is something more than that, something that bonds them together for reasons even they don’t fully understand. Despite your apparent competence and mastery of the financial statement disclosures they suspect you are 88

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Berkeley Fiction Review

Condict Moore

Berkeley Fiction Review

SECOND PLACE SUDDEN FICTION

Epis(ode) to Club Soda MICHELLE KICHERER

I stole one the other day. I saw it in the fridge at work, hiding amongst the crusting condiments that had been there since the early nineties. My eyes shifted around like a suspicious cartoon cat, and I wondered what punishment I could face should I pilfer the sparkling delight. I peeked inside again, the rubber lining between door and fridge de-suctioning with a loud schlock! And there it stood: a lone can of club soda, between a half-deflated plastic water bottle and a jar with one lonely pickle suspended in brine.

that I was surveying him. I lurked in the corner, pretending to read the latest posted health codes, but secretly watched as he opened the fridge, leaned forward and drummed somewhat rhythmically on the freezer while he stared into the cavernous cold of the fridge, as if there were so many options. A stiff Chinese food container with orange grease seeping out its folds. A banana on the top shelf that had turned a delectable brown, grate lines forming along its decaying body. He landed at last on the half-sandwich that lay sadly on the bottom shelf, wrapped haphazardly in wax paper. He waved it once and nodded at me, like he’d found a real gem. He left. He didn’t take the club soda. Who would? It probably belonged to no one at this point, left over from the last account guy that quit abruptly. No one would miss it. I walked stealthily towards the fridge and took my reward, then held it for a moment, feeling the cold aluminum in my hand. I took the contraband back to my office, and decided I’d rather stand for the joyous experience. Unable to wait, my hungry fingernails pried open the top of the can, releasing a tantalizing sschliit!

I almost left the room, but paused, my hand lingering on the stickiness of the fridge’s handle. My mind drifted to a happier place. I imagined the powerful rush of bubbles cascading down my esophagus, my eyes watering from effervescent shock. After each refreshing gulp I’d smack my lips with pleased ecstasy, feeling quite alive! Feeling that this was what life was all about!

I guzzled the elixir like Ponce de Leon, taking in every aerated sip with joyous rejuvenation. Oh club soda, you bubbling motherfucker! I almost cried with delight as I downed half the can. Then I waited expectantly. Within seconds the proud aftermath came rumbling back through my mouth. A charming eructation occurred, and I nodded proudly to myself. Job well done.

But the consequences could be dire. What if I were to get caught? Then what? I knew I had to return to my office, where a flaccid glass of tap water awaited.

Someone tapped on my open door. I sat the can on my desk with a confident thud before looking up. It was Josephine Jordan. She preferred to go by JoJo, a name I refused.

The trudge of lazy footsteps interrupted my thoughts, and before I turned around I knew it was Todd. Todd Fard from tech support. Poor Todd, and his miserable name. I let go of the fridge handle and turned around, offering a fake smile, and stepped back, gesturing that the fridge is all yours, Todd! He smiled at me and went about his business, unaware 90

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“Hi, Josephine, what can I do for you?” Josephine started to say something, but only a partial word came out. She looked down at my desk, directly at the can. “Did you get that from the fridge here?” I looked down at the can and back up at her. Neither of us said anything.

Berkeley Fiction Review

SECOND PLACE SUDDEN FICTION

Epis(ode) to Club Soda MICHELLE KICHERER

But the consequences could be dire. What if I were to get caught? Then what? I knew I had to return to my office, where a flaccid glass of tap water awaited.

Someone tapped on my open door. I sat the can on my desk with a confident thud before looking up. It was Josephine Jordan. She preferred to go by JoJo, a name I refused.

Michelle Kicherer

Berkeley Fiction Review

The Long Note C.B. HEINEMANN

Nobody could pin down the precise moment that the sound began to chew its way into the consciousness of every man, woman, and child on the planet. People in every time zone noticed it at approximately the same time wherever they livedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; about an hour before dawnâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;leading self-proclaimed experts to announce that it began in one place and worked its way around the globe. Most claimed that it sounded like a flute playing a long, low note that never ended. Some thought that it sounded more like a bowed violin, while others insisted that it was similar to an electric guitar holding a sustained note. People with anxious personalities assumed that it was coming from inside their own heads until repeatedly assured that everyone else could hear it too. Even the deaf community felt a low but insistent vibration. That note filled the air in noisy, pollution-choked cities, hovered over icy mountain glaciers, bent and curled its way through labyrinthine medieval quarters in European towns, disturbed remote African villages on the plains of the Sudan and in the deep forests of the Congo, alarmed Eskimo hunting parties on the frozen edges of the Arctic, and awakened drowsy passengers on Amazon river boats. Even the crews of cargo ships far out at sea frantically checked their equipment to find the source of that sound. The note stayed with people in their homes, offices, farms, factories, workshops, schools, playgrounds, prisons, and shops. Musicians around the globe agreed that it was an F sharp, but could provide no further insight. Everyone complained, 92

Jessica Zheng

Berkeley Fiction Review

The Long Note C.B. HEINEMANN

Jessica Zheng

Berkeley Fiction Review

speculated, and guessed about it in every language and dialect on Earth. The search for the source became the lead story in every newspaper, every internet page, and on every television and radio station in the world, with hundreds of conflicting theories circulating that reflected the views and preconceptions of those who promoted them. It was the only subject anyone could find to talk about because it was always present but never understood. Animals didn’t seem to be affected by the note. Birds and insects appeared unfazed. Fish were oblivious. Israel blamed the Palestinians, while the Islamic world denounced Israel and the United States. Pakistan threatened India, which massed its army on the border. Ethiopia pointed at Eritrea, China railed against Russia, and Romania complained that the sound was generated by the Hungarians. Some blamed global warming while still others had the vague notion that it was a Communist plot. Seismologists listened for the note deep in the earth, while astronomers scanned the heavens. Scientists from every discipline strained their knowledge and resources to find the source of the note, but none were successful. The strenuously religious of every faith loudly proclaimed that it was the voice of God punishing those who did not adhere to their particular beliefs. Others were convinced that the note was the opening salvo heralding an alien invasion, a government clampdown, or the end of the world. But the world didn’t end, no space ships arrived, and God didn’t conduct any more smiting than usual. Sales of MP3 players exploded, however, and it seemed everybody was racing to invent a better earplug. People found themselves forced to go about their daily lives with high-tech earplugs firmly in place and rarely removed. More and more people simply shut out the sounds of the outside world entirely in order to get away from the note, and only heard what they chose to hear. In Cedar Crest, a small Wisconsin town between Milwaukee and Green Bay, a teacher named Jeremy Wickham didn’t hear the note. He had no auditory problems, no history of hearing problems in either his family or his personal life, and was perfectly sane and healthy. But the F sharp that stabbed like a thin, taut wire through the brains of everyone on the planet didn’t exist for him. 94

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Jeremy was forty-one, married, with daughters aged fourteen and eleven, and had a reputation as a guy with a dry sense of humor and a fondness for mystery novels. He jogged every evening, played ragtime tunes on an upright piano with two missing keys that he meant to replace someday, and tried to grow Pinot Noir grapes in a small backyard vineyard. He had no obvious traits that set him apart from the rest of humanity or that rendered him immune from the tyranny of that note. His wife Jan may have suffered from the note more than most because she was married to the one person who didn’t hear it. A lifelong interest in wine led to her become a consultant at Cedar Crest Wine & Spirits Boutique, and soon after that note made its appearance, sales shot up. Everybody wanted a wine that might take the edge of the strain that unceasing note created, and Jan couldn’t give much advice except that they might try pouring it into their ears. At first that got a laugh, but as nerves began to grind down she learned not to joke about it. Her customers wanted relief. At first, wine started selling out; first whites, then reds. Eventually, customers turned to harder stuff than wine and they couldn’t stock it fast enough. One evening she came home to find Jeremy sitting in the kitchen reading the newspaper. “Where are the girls?” she asked as she pulled off her shoes. “In their room on their iPhones, earplugs firmly in place.” “I can’t believe you can just sit there and not lose your mind.” Jan was a pretty blonde woman, originally from Minnesota, with long hair cascading down her back, creamy skin, and dark blue eyes always ready to spot anomalies. She had grown gradually wider below the waist in the last few years, but was still quite shapely. “Maybe you ought to put earplugs in, just in case.” “I see they’re coming up with all kinds of decorative earplugs. I guess I’ll have to wear them just to stay in fashion. I read that gangs in LA use earplugs as their markers—better not wear the wrong earplug in their neighborhood.” After pouring herself a glass of Old Vine Zinfandel, Jan dropped onto the sofa beside him and yanked out one earplug. Berkeley Fiction Review

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“I’m unusual now, selling something that appeals to the sense of taste rather than blocking out the sense of hearing. How’s school?”

She turned to him, her eyes wary. “It’s just a meeting for people who, you know, want to talk about what’s happening. The noise that won’t go away. Pastor Hahn knows a lot. Maybe he has some ideas.”

“We’ve had to suspend some of the curriculum in order to teach sign language. It’s not a bad idea anyway, but it’s ridiculous trying to teach people who are constantly distracted. Fights, arguments, all kinds of discipline problems. As soon as the kids are signing, earplugs are going to be mandatory.”

“Pastor Hahn?” Jeremy smiled. “You think he knows what this is all about?”

She laughed. “Every kid’s dream, eh? And every teacher’s nightmare—a classroom full of students with earplugs in their ears.” She twisted her earplug back into place. “Unfortunately, we’d all lose our minds without them. I read that suicide is the latest world plague. I wonder how long it’ll be before we all do ourselves in.”

“I’m not laughing, dear. I just don’t think Pastor Hahn . . .”

“That sound has to stop sometime, I’m sure.” Jeremy had to shout to be heard through the rubber in Jan’s ears. “Why so sure? Maybe it’ll last forever. Maybe this is the way the human race goes down. When the aliens do finally show up, they’ll wonder what happened to us. Who would guess that humanity succumbed to an F sharp? And it’s not easy driving with earplugs. Accidents all over the road . . .” “You’re not supposed to drive with those . . .” “Ha. You try driving with that stupid hum in your ear.” “Maybe I’d better do the driving for both of us.” Jan paused a moment, fidgeting. “What is it, honey?”She took a deep drink from her glass. “I’m going to a meeting tonight.”

She leapt to her feet with a sharp intake of breath. You just don’t get it, Jer! How can you? You don’t even hear it—you don’t understand. I can’t really talk about it with you because you don’t . . . I need something, some kind of comfort. You can’t know what it’s like with this going on and on and on and on, twenty-four hours a day.” “I’m sorry I . . .” “You read the paper, you see what’s happening. People are committing suicide, killing each other, going crazy. Almost everyone is on drugs, drunk . . . everybody on Earth is losing it, Jer. Society is coming apart and I’m not immune. Just because we live in a nice neighborhood in a nice town and we’re so nice and all that kind of crap, it doesn’t make any difference. I can’t imagine going on living for another forty, fifty years like this—I don’t want to grow old—not if this damned sound keeps going on and on. It isn’t worth it, Jeremy, it just isn’t worth living if it’s going to be like . . .” She twisted onto the sofa, sobbing. Jeremy was frightened by the energy of her emotions, but he had no answers. “Honey, I’m sure it’ll go away,” he offered. “It can’t last forever.” “You don’t know that. Nobody knows. Nobody knows anything anymore, and nothing matters. All we can do is wear earplugs, poke our eardrums out, or drink until we pass out. So I’m going to go and be with some friends at church and maybe we’ll find some kind of comfort in our faith. I know you don’t believe. But I’ve got to turn to something. I’ve got to turn to my

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“I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” She turned to him. “You’re laughing, aren’t you? This isn’t funny.”

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“I’m unusual now, selling something that appeals to the sense of taste rather than blocking out the sense of hearing. How’s school?”

“Pastor Hahn?” Jeremy smiled. “You think he knows what this is all about?”

“I’m not laughing, dear. I just don’t think Pastor Hahn . . .”

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“I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” She turned to him. “You’re laughing, aren’t you? This isn’t funny.”

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faith, even if you think it’s dumb.” Jeremy wanted to comfort his wife, but he sensed hostility behind her words. “It’s not like I just decided one day to be a godless heathen. I spent years studying the history of Christianity, how the New Testament came about, how the church started, and the more I learned . . . it’s all just made up so some people two thousand years ago could gain power over other people. If God is speaking through you, who’s going to argue, right? All through history, religion has been hung over people’s heads to get them to obey the rulers or suffer eternal punishment. That’s all religion is about.” “I don’t believe it is.” “Belief! That’s what they always harp on—belief, faith. Isn’t that what every scam artist and flim-flam man wants in people, too? Belief and faith? Think about it—how do you get people to believe something that isn’t true, that doesn’t have any way of being proven and nothing to back it up? You turn faith into such a virtue that you flush your own intelligence down the toilet so that some imaginary supernatural being will refrain from condemning you to eternal agony. Look at history—what good has religion really done? All it does is enslave people in ignorance and superstition.” Jan sat up stiffly, blew her nose, and kept her red-rimmed eyes from his. “All right. You know so much. So tell me—what do I do to keep from losing my mind? Any answers?” “Keep wearing your earplugs. The sound will go away eventually. Scientists will figure it out.” She sat for several minutes without speaking. Jeremy tried to read his paper. At last she turned to him. “That’s it? That’s all you and your reason can come up with? I’m sorry, but you have no idea. No idea. I’m going to church. You can stay here and not hear that note and be very happy with your rationality and reason.” “Honey, I’ll come with—” “No, no. I’ll go myself.” “At least let me drive you.” 98

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While Jan changed her clothes, Jeremy sat thinking. The air was still. He tried to hear the sound, but all he detected was the faint buzz of the air conditioner. He could sense that his marriage, his life, was like a beautiful, well-made piece of furniture, and that invisible note was sliding under it like a crowbar to heave, twist, and pry everything loose, snapping the glue apart and ripping up the gleaming veneer. He drove her to the meeting that night, as he did many nights after that. On the way he listened to the radio—he was one of the few who listened without earpieces—while she sat alone with her thoughts. The news on the radio was all about that sound and very little else. Not much else could happen in the world with that note rammed into everyone’s brains. Scientists thought that they might be closing in on an answer, but it could still be months, if not years. Suicide and homicide soared in places that had never known serious crime. The problems were far worse in Third World countries. Wars, famine, and mass murders, all caused, directly or indirectly, by the note. Jeremy sat in on the first meeting. Pastor Hahn had the church fitted with earphones in the pews, and all those who wanted to speak could use a special microphone so nobody had to take out their earplugs. The meeting turned out to be more of a church service, with prayers, bible readings, hymns, and a sermon about the note. Pastor Hahn—predictably, Jeremy thought—said that the sound was a message from God, and that everyone should listen to their own hearts. We should see it as a gift, he said, a gift that will ultimately lead us to Him and his Word. After the service, people talked about the note and the problems it caused them while Pastor Hahn assured everyone in his bland Lutheran way that God would take care of everything. At the end, the pastor led the congregation in a prayer thanking God for blessing the world with that sound, and asking Him to give them the grace to accept it and hear His message. Jeremy tried not to roll his eyes. At subsequent meetings, he drove Jan and dropped her off, then ran errands until it was time to pick her up. Over time they talked together less and less. They worked different hours. The meetings became more frequent, and Jeremy knew better than to comment. After all, what did he know? He couldn’t even hear that sound. Berkeley Fiction Review

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Much of the country was turning to religion for solace. Churches were packed every day and night. Religious leaders proclaimed that the note was sent by God for punishment, redemption, or as the last Trumpet before the End, depending on the denomination. Instead of fearing it and trying to block it out, we should all embrace it and hear its message. If we listened, all would be revealed. That became the overriding theme at Jan’s church. “I try to take out the earplugs for longer periods every day,” she said. “Maybe it’s true. Maybe it really is the voice of God. If it is, I want to hear it. I want to know what God’s message is.” “Are you sure that’s a good idea, honey? Doesn’t it drive you crazy to hear that sound, that note, all the time, nonstop?” “What do you know about it?” Jan would snap back. “You can’t even hear it. Everybody on Earth hears the note except you. What does that tell you?” “I don’t know, I suppose—” “Maybe God isn’t talking to you. Maybe he’s given up on you because you’ve given up on Him.” At that point, Jan usually jammed her earplug back in and retreated to the bedroom to pray. One day, Jeremy got a call from a research lab in Michigan. The woman on the other end of the phone asked if it was true that he couldn’t hear the note. “Yes, it’s true, but how do you know about that?” “We received a letter from your doctor.” “My doctor? Doesn’t that violate patient-doctor confidentiality?” “You can, of course, choose to sue him. He told us in his letter that he was aware of that possibility and willing to risk losing his license. You are the only person anyone is aware of who doesn’t hear that note, and you could help us find an answer. You could help millions, maybe billions, Mr. Wickham.” 100

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“But I’ve got a job, a family . . .” “It would only take a couple of days, and of course, you would be generously compensated. Transportation costs, hotel, all taken care of.” “I’d love to help, of course, but I don’t know. I’ve got things to . . .” “Mr. Wickham, every person on earth is afflicted with this. I’m no exception, and neither are the doctors and scientists here. So far, you are the only person we found who is not affected, and we need to know why.” Her voice took an unexpected curve. “I have never done this in my life, sir, but I’m pleading with you.” “Let me talk to my wife about this and I’ll get back to you.” When Jan got home that night, Jeremy told her about the call from the lab. “What do you think, honey? Should I go up and do this? It might help a lot of people.” Jan looked at him. “I’m not so sure about this after all. Is that the right thing for you to be doing? That sound is a gift from God that we need to learn from. Should you be a way that God’s note is silenced? Or should you instead accept God’s word and at last you’ll hear him, too? Maybe God has a special mission for you.” “That special mission might be to help find a way to block out the sound.” Jan laughed incredulously. “Block out a message from God? Is that what you think you should be a part of?” “People all over the world are committing suicide, murder. How you can you forget that the Carlsons, just a block and half from here, killed themselves because of this? This note isn’t from God—if anything it’s from the devil.” “But Pastor Hahn says—” “What kind of God drives people out of their minds and into doing terrible things, all to ‘bring them’ to Him? Does that sound reasonable to you?” Berkeley Fiction Review

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“What is reason to God is folly to man, what is reason to man is folly to God.” “Is that some saying of Pastor Hahn? What kind of psychopathic God would go to such terrible lengths to force me to ‘accept’ him?” “That reminds me, are you still driving me to the meeting tonight? I want to take the girls. It might make them feel better. Other parents are bringing their kids.” She said the words “other parents” with a sting that Jeremy felt. “Go ahead, but don’t keep them out too long. They’ve got homework to do.” After driving his wife and daughters to the church, Jeremy sat listening to the radio in his car. The world was falling apart. People everywhere going mad, killing themselves, taking drugs, giving up on life. When his family returned, Jan sat in silence on the ride home and retired to bed early. Jeremy sat up reading the paper. All over the globe, sound-related violence was spreading. Industries inched toward the brink of collapse. In one feature story, a reporter investigated two sides of the crisis—the wealthy opted for a special surgery that cut out the F sharp frequency but left some of their hearing intact. Poor people—from Sao Paolo to Calcutta and Sierra Leon to Mississippi—poked out their own eardrums with sticks or pieces of old metal, desperate to escape. Many of them ended up with horrible complications and infections. Populations in many rural areas of the world were so decimated that they became virtually uninhabited. A few of the more strident commentators screamed that human beings might wind up on the Endangered Species list. “Is this how God sends me a message to shape up? That’s absurd. I’ve got to go to Michigan.” Early the next morning, Jeremy woke his wife by gently removing the earplugs from her ears. “Jan, I’m going. I have to. I know it sounds crazy, but I might be the only person on Earth who might provide some answers and some evidence that can help. Do you see what’s happening out there? Even in Milwaukee there are riots, food is running out. The human race is unraveling 102

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before our eyes. I have to help.” Jan sat up, her eyes still half closed. “Don’t you see? The way is being prepared—Jesus is about to return. People all over the world and embracing the note, the one, pure, beautiful note that God has sent us all to hear together. Do you want to silence God’s beautiful note and close the ears of the people to His word?” Jeremy hoped she would laugh and say, Just kidding. She didn’t. “I notice you had your earplugs blocking what you call ‘God’s note’ from your ears all night. What’s that about?” “Jeremy, you just don’t get it. You don’t know—” “Do you really believe all that stuff you’re saying? That God sent this as a message—a message that drives millions to suicide?” “You need to open your heart so that your ears might also hear—” “Any actual evidence to back up this claim? Or is it just more of Pastor Hahn’s delusions? Any facts to get behind?” “My faith is enough.” Jan’s face became hard. “My faith is all I need.” “I’m afraid your faith isn’t doing much for those poor people out there killing themselves. Faith is just a way to run away from facts, from reality, and replace it with fantasy. Now you and your friends who live in some dream world want to impose their insane notions on the rest of the world. What are you?” Jan leapt from the bed. “And what are you? You come in here and mock my faith?” She flung open her closet and grabbed handfuls of clothes. “You’re evil, Jeremy! I’ve got to get out of here—I’ve got to get away from you.” She turned, her face red and contorted. “I can’t hear this! I can’t listen to this!” As she fell onto the bed in tears, Jeremy moved closer and leaned over to touch her shoulder. Jan recoiled with a highpitched shriek. “Get away! Don’t touch me! I can’t believe what I’ve married! What have I done?” Berkeley Fiction Review

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Horror spewed through Jeremy’s system. My God, she’s lost her mind, he thought. But he didn’t say those words—the words that burned to come from his lips. He thought a moment. “Maybe you’re right dear,” he murmured. “Maybe I need to open my heart to God’s note. Maybe the fault lies in me after all.” Jan relaxed slightly and peered at him through the welter of tears. “Really? Are you willing to open your heart?” Jeremy swallowed. “Yes, dear. I think I need to go away for a couple of days to think and pray. Maybe that’s what I need to do.” “You’re not going to Michigan, are you?” Her face turned hard again. “No, dear. I don’t want to silence God’s voice. I want to hear it, too.” “But where are you going?” “I’ll go to Lake Shawano. Nobody will be there except the birds and fish.” He smiled. “If I hear the note anywhere, it’ll be there.” Jan helped him gather clothes, a sleeping bag, the tent, and food. She kissed him goodbye as he climbed into his car. “Thank you, God, for speaking to Jeremy’s heart. It’s a good heart, Lord. You know that. He’s a good man. Open his heart to Your love.” Jeremy drove out onto the interstate and let out his breath at last. “I don’t feel so great about lying, but this is our only hope.” After about an hour, Jeremy pulled over at a rest stop and called the lab.

can you believe it? This thing is making everybody crazy.” “I know that, for sure. I know all too well.” “They think we’re trying to silence the voice of God. The whole world is going to pieces and they want to help it along. I just don’t get it. If I go without earplugs for more than five minutes I start to lose it myself.” Jeremy looked at the crowd of mostly older people in flannel and jackets holding signs with messages like Listen to your God, and Don’t stifle the voice of our Lord. He felt a wave of vertigo. “I don’t get it, either.” “You don’t hear it, either. In a way, I do get it. It just makes you crazy, you know? Hearing that sound, nonstop, never changing or getting louder or softer. With something like that in your ears all the time, you get all kinds of ideas. Your brain has to make some kind of sense of it, you know? I mean, hey, you’ve got to think something, right? You can’t just hear it and think nothing. Our brains won’t allow us to.” A pretty receptionist at the lab greeted him and whisked him to a fourth floor examination room where an older doctor with white hair and glasses barely hanging onto the end of his nose gave him a thorough check-up while humming along with music he had going into an earphone. Later, several specialists came in, took his blood, his urine, even some saliva. A young Indian neurologist came in, asked him dozens of questions, and tested his hearing and balance for more than an hour. Two more doctors arrived and led him to a big room filled with high-tech medical equipment where he received a PET scan, MRI, and several X-rays.

Several hours later he checked into the hotel and the room reserved for him. The next morning, a car arrived to take him to the lab. As they approached the massive white building, Jeremy saw dozens of protestors gathered at the gates.

“All right, Mr. Wickham, that’s enough for today,” the first doctor told him. So far we can’t find anything different about you. You’re perfectly healthy. We still have to wait for results on some of the tests, but we don’t expect to find anything unusual. It’s been a tough day for you, I imagine. Tomorrow will be a lot easier.”

“Don’t mind them, Mr. Wickham,” said the driver—a short, bald man of about forty with a frank, humorous expression. “They won’t hurt anybody. They think that our research is wrong,

After taking a walk around town, Jeremy had dinner at an Italian place—with no other customers—and returned to his room.

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“Don’t mind them, Mr. Wickham,” said the driver—a short, bald man of about forty with a frank, humorous expression. “They won’t hurt anybody. They think that our research is wrong,

After taking a walk around town, Jeremy had dinner at an Italian place—with no other customers—and returned to his room.

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He sat in bed watching television and wondering whether or not to call his wife. No, he thought. She’d see that he was calling from Michigan. It was better that she thought he was off in the woods, trying to hear the note. But what will I do when I get home? If there’s a way to shut it out, how will I tell Jan I found out about it? And will she do it, or let that note run her life? The next morning the driver picked him up again and drove him to the lab. The same protestors waited outside. Jeremy spent the day talking to psychologists and psychiatrists, telling them the story of his life. They wondered if perhaps his emotions or unresolved traumas blocked him from hearing the note. Jeremy sensed disappointment when he told them of his carefree childhood and happy life. At about four-thirty, a middle-aged woman in a gray pantsuit called him into her office, took out her earplugs, and handed him a check for two thousand dollars. “We certainly appreciate your help, Mr. Wickham. Thank you so much.” “Wow, this is a lot of money. Did you learn anything from me? Did I really help in any way?” “I think the information we got from you will help.” “So there’s nothing about me that makes me any different from anyone else?” “No, except perhaps for the fact that you are in absolutely perfect health, physically and mentally. The doctors were unable to find any irregularities.” She forced a smile, stood up, and thrust out her hand. “You have one more night at the hotel, so enjoy yourself and relax. Thanks again for your help.” Jeremy drove home early the next morning with a sick feeling in his stomach. He had done all he could do, but it turned out to be of no help at all. He lied to Jan, all for nothing. Now he had two thousand dollars to deal with—how could he keep it but at the same time hide it from her? Guilt prodded him to drive to Lake Shawano and check into a campground for the night. He didn’t want to be a complete 106

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liar. Besides, he thought, he needed to think about what to do next. Tiny lights jittered on the far shore of the lake, and moonlight glistened on ripples on the surface of the water. Jeremy sat by a fire in front of his tent a few feet from the shore, drinking a local microbrew. The smell of lake water filled his nostrils, and mosquitoes hovered briefly near him before being driven off by his electronic insect repellent. “What am I going to do?” he asked the Moon. “How I am I going to deal with Jan? What will I say to the girls? How can I live in a world filled with people going insane?” He felt a throb of fear. “I don’t know if I can.” At last he emptied his mind and heard only the crackle of fire and the lisp of the lake. He didn’t know how long he sat like that, unmoving and unthinking. The world was quiet, peaceful. He tried to hear that sound, but couldn’t. He wondered why he, of all people, had been spared. Did it really exist or was it a mass hallucination? How could that be? And why? He slept for a long time that night, waking occasionally when a fish splashed in the water or a frog grunted in the distance. The morning arrived on pine-scented breezes under a lapis lazuli sky. It was time to go home. Jeremy made up his mind on how to deal with his situation, though he knew it didn’t make sense. He stopped at a drug store, bought three pairs of earplugs and an earpiece for the television. “I’ll just have to go along until this thing clears up,” he told himself. “This is so stupid.” During the long hours on the highway, he listened to CDs of Mozart and imagined himself going through life wearing earplugs and pretending to hear what he couldn’t actually hear. “I guess I’ll have to go to church with Jan, too. Maybe act all religious just to keep the peace. How much of this pretending am I going to have to do before I lose my mind, too?” He slept for a long time that night, waking occasionally when a fish splashed in the water or a frog grunted in the distance. The morning arrived on pine-scented breezes under a lapis lazuli sky. It was time to go home. Jeremy made up his mind on how Berkeley Fiction Review

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to deal with his situation, though he knew it didn’t make sense. He stopped at a drug store, bought three pairs of earplugs and an earpiece for the television. “I’ll just have to go along until this thing clears up,” he told himself. “This is so stupid.” During the long hours on the highway, he listened to CDs of Mozart and imagined himself going through life wearing earplugs and pretending to hear what he couldn’t actually hear. “I guess I’ll have to go to church with Jan, too. Maybe act all religious just to keep the peace. How much of this pretending am I going to have to do before I lose my mind, too?” As he neared his house, he put in the earplugs. When he walked into his house and saw Jan, her face was an exclamation point. “Are those earplugs I see? Is it true? Did you hear the note?” He smirked. “Yeah, it started yesterday. I couldn’t sleep last night.” She threw herself on him, laughing through her tears. “Oh, Jeremy!” She kissed his face, his neck. “I’m so sorry I was mean to you about this. I have some big news for you. You can take out the earplugs. We don’t have to shout anymore. It’s over. The note is gone. It went away last night.”

“Are you serious? It’s over?” He quickly plucked out the earplugs and stuffed them into his shirt pocket. “What happened?” “Nobody really knows for sure, but they think they may have figured it out. They say now that it was something to do with the Earth’s crust and tectonic plates. Gases stuck deep in the Earth expanded over time, and then sort of, well, came out all over the place, through all the little fissures and faults in the crust, making that sound. I can’t remember the whole explanation. It’s really complicated.” “But what about the Word of God? I thought . . .” Jan gave an embarrassed laugh. “It sort of made sense that it could be God, at least. There didn’t seem to be any other explanation.” “But now there is?” “Everybody seems to think so. Scientists, the government, all over the world. Everybody says it was trapped gases escaping. Apparently it happens every thousand years or something. That’s it. That was the whole thing.” Jeremy sat down, dumbfounded. “So what you’re saying is that Mother Earth just cut a great, big, long, worldwide fart?” “Yeah, I guess you could say that, though it sounds really vulgar when you—” “So first it was the word of God, and now it’s a fart?” “Yes, it seems so.” He sat for a long time. At last he looked at her and shook his head. “That makes even less sense. No, that’s just crazy. Escaping gas? How can it sound the same note everywhere— everywhere in the world? That’s crazier than your old theory.” “I don’t appreciate you calling me crazy.” “No, no, I don’t mean you, I mean the theory. I understand that hearing that sound twenty-four-seven can make anyone crazy, and when nobody can explain it, God is about the only

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answer left. But escaping gas?” “I’m surprised you didn’t hear anything about it, but you were off in the woods. All about geothermal shifts, atmospheric pressures, other complicated things. The sound is gone, people are starting to put their lives back together, that’s what’s important. It’s going to take time for everybody to recover. Why don’t you have a shower and I’ll make some dinner? The kids will be home soon and they’ll be happy to see you. They can explain this better than I did.” That night, Jeremy lay in bed awake while Jan slept curled up beside him. “Escaping gases,” he whispered. “Now I’ve heard it all. The worst part in a way is that I had to lie and pretend in order to keep the peace. I’ve never done that before. I don’t like the way that feels. I can’t even tell anybody.” At about five o’clock the next morning, moments before the pre-horizon sun exhaled blue against the black sky, Jeremy jerked awake from a sound sleep. He had been lying on his left hand, and it had fallen asleep so completely that his arm felt like a lump of numb sand. He rolled over and closed his eyes. It was then he first noticed it. Low, hollow, like a flute. He shut his ears and it was gone, so it wasn’t some transient inner ear hum—it was coming from outside. “Jan,” he whispered. “What’s that sound?” She woke with a start. “What sound? I don’t hear anything.” “That hum, like a flute.” She lay listening for a few moments, then turned away. “Go to sleep, Jeremy. You’re dreaming.” But Jeremy wasn’t dreaming. The note grew louder. He was finally forced to put his earplugs in. Of all the people on Earth, Jeremy was the only one who could hear it.

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in a clown-like smile, a smile that greatly exceeded any sense of warmth and seemed to hint at psychosis. Her eyes did not blink and her expression remained as devoid of motion as she was of clothes. Aside from eyelashes and eyebrows, she had not a single trace of hair anywhere on her body. Her skin was impeccable with a color that seemed to be lightly kissed by the sun. She hung in the air, her arms outstretched to her sides, held up by stainless steel mechanical ones.

Your Name is Jane JOHN NOMIS

Rory Flanagan poured himself his sixth cup of morning coffee. His hand shook slightly but he didn’t notice, lost in the aroma that arose from the coffee being poured in. The only thing keeping me going, he thought to himself as he put the pot down and began his journey back to his desk. He plopped down into his worn chair a bit too quickly, coffee splashing out of the cup and burning his hand. “Ah, geez,” he exclaimed, grabbing a used tissue to wipe off the liquid. “Can’t even sit down right.” He finished drying his hand and wiped off the newest stain on his flannel shirt. Satisfied, he discarded the tissue and slowly raised his mug to his lips, the steam clouding his square glasses. Bliss. He held the mug just a bit longer, his hands consuming the warmth as his mouth consumed the coffee. The moment passed and he placed the mug down and quickly set back to his keyboard. “Processing duplication number 738810.” He said the words to nothing in particular, knowing that the recorder in the room wouldn’t miss a thing. In front of Rory and his computer sat a large window looking over a very large conveyor belt. The belt was essentially a moving wall and Rory could see everything from behind the window. The belt whirred to life at the end of his words and shuffled off to his left, sweeping away tens of feet of empty space before finally pulling a woman into view and placing her directly in front of him. The woman was completely nude. Her face was frozen 112

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Rory finished clacking away at his keyboard and drew his attention to the woman. He stared intently, his eyes moving methodically across every square inch of her body. As had been the case for the last three weeks, not a single blemish or shortcoming was found. His eyes met hers and he felt discomfort spread through him. It was the same exact feeling he felt with every duplication. Although he couldn’t stand it, he knew it meant everything was in order. He returned to his keyboard and input a few more lines of data before pressing an intercom button on his desk. “Can you hear me?” he asked, his eyes fixated on hers. He had requested the ability to go off script early on in his employment. “Are you awake?” seemed like the wrong question to ask and he had convinced his bosses that asking if she could hear him was the optimal way to test both overall and audio functionality. “Yes.” She said nothing more. Rory pressed a single key without looking away from her. “What is your designation number?” Off script, again. The original question had been “What is your name?” but Rory had expressed fears that the duplications would associate a deeper connection if they felt their designation number was their name. It would be easier to assign their name later, he claimed. The bosses believed him. “My designation number is 738810.” “Good, that’s very good,” he said, half to her and half because everything was running smoothly. If only they would blink, he thought. He took a moment to take a swig from his coffee now that it had cooled to the perfect temperature. Berkeley Fiction Review

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Your Name is Jane JOHN NOMIS

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“Okay, 738810, I’m going to give you your name now, do you understand?” “Yes.”

“Yes.” “Excellent. What is your designation number?”

“Very good. Your name is Jane.” There was no response whatsoever. She hung in the air appearing to have heard nothing. “Can you say that?” “Jane.” Rory smiled. The nuances of a functioning mind provided problems he occasionally had to deal with, although they were rare. “What is your name?” “My name is Jane.” Rory collected his mug and sank into his chair. Most duplications were perfect, but he still marveled at how capable and advanced they were. He reached forward and pressed the intercom button a final time. “That’s wonderful, Jane. Enjoy your new home.” He pressed another button just right of the keyboard and the belt sprang to life, ushering Jane out of sight. “Processing duplication number 738811.” After a moment, the next duplication was delivered. Rory missed the sight, his head being cocked back to get every drop of coffee out of his mug. It was time for number seven. He prepared to stand, but decided to get the physical inspection out of the way first. Again his eyes meticulously moved across every facet of the body before him. The first time he carried out a physical inspection he felt uncomfortable, averting his gaze several times because he thought she was watching him. Over time, the emotional connection dissipated and his inspection became as mechanical as her body. He reached her eyes and the pang of unease shot through him. Perhaps all the emotional connection hadn’t quite left him. Regardless, she was perfect. After inputting his data, he flipped the intercom switch on, picked up his mug, and headed back towards his most trusted office ally. The pot was still warm and the coffee still steamed. As he poured, he spoke. “Can you hear me?” Once his mug was full he trekked 114

back, sitting down with a bit more grace this time around.

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“My designation number is 738811.” His eyes had been resting on an arbitrary point away from the duplication when he thought he saw movement. It was faint and lightning fast, but any movement was an indication of a flaw. His eyes darted up to the duplication’s face, his mind on alert. He waited for any other sign but was granted no such thing. He returned his eyes to his coffee, this time in concern rather than contentment. Maybe seven cups before noon was a bad idea. He pushed the mug away, straightened his shoulders, and readied his hands on the keyboard. He took a deep breath and continued. “That’s exactly right, 738811. Now, I’m going to give you your name, is that clear?” Rory winced at his words. Rookie mistake. “The evaluation of you giving me my name cannot be judged on a scale of physical transparency.” Rory shook his head at his slip-up. “You’re right, that was my mistake,” he said as he sighed. “I’m going to give you your name, do you understand?” “Yes.” That was more like it. The mental functioning at this stage was rough around the edges, to say the least, and Rory knew words had to be chosen carefully. The sliver of a smile returned to him. “Your name is Jane. Can you say that?” “Jane.” “Splendid. What is your name?” “My name is Jane.” Rory let his shoulders slump slightly and smiled a bit more. He input the information and prepared to send her on her way. “Why is my name Jane?” The words made Rory’s stomach Berkeley Fiction Review

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“Okay, 738810, I’m going to give you your name now, do you understand?” “Yes.”

“Yes.” “Excellent. What is your designation number?”

back, sitting down with a bit more grace this time around.

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drop for what felt like an eternity. He instantly felt ill, his throat feeling suddenly very tight, his hands paralyzed. It was bad enough that the duplication had spoke on its own, but to ask a question, to ask that question, was a sign of something that had gone horribly wrong. He had been concerned that his copious amounts of coffee had lessened his ability to do his job, but now he desperately hoped his coffee was responsible. He raised his gaze to meet hers. She was perfectly still, as if an existential question hadn’t just escaped her metal lips. He swallowed and found his voice. “What?” His hand hovered over the button to send her away. He prayed for silence.

“Duplication number 738811 is defective.” “Defective. Flawed, faulty, imperfect. I am none of those things.” Rory looked at her and she looked back. He didn’t stop. “The duplication is showing signs of sentience.” “Sentience. Capacity for sensation or feeling. Why is that defective?” “Requesting immediate termination.”

“Why is my name Jane?” “Shit.” He rolled his chair towards a shelf to the left of him and pulled down a binder, frantically flipping through hundreds of pages. “Shit, shit, shit.” There was a protocol in place for termination but it had never come up. Puffs of dust escaped the pages he thumbed through. Aural Dysfunction. No. Dialogue Discrepancy. No. Asymmetrical Appearance. God damn it, no. He flew through the pages, some being torn out in the process. He was approaching the end of the manual at an alarming pace. Finally, Is Your Model Thinking? “What are you doing with that book?” This was all wrong. The hairs on Rory’s neck stood on end. Duplications weren’t supposed to be aware of their optical components yet. He gathered every ounce of courage he could find and turned around. Jane’s eyes were locked onto him. It was the first time he had ever seen their eyes move. He whipped his head back to the binder and began reading. “Do you have a name?” Jane asked. Rory was lost in his reading and he answered unconsciously. “Rory.” “Why is your name Rory?” “It just is! Stop talking!” Rory went back to muttering the protocol out loud under his breath. 116

“I’m sorry.” A flash of sympathy ran through him, but it dissipated quickly. He shut the binder and rolled back to his desk. He typed away furiously, setting up the proper channels.

John Nomis

“Termination. To put an end to.” A silence ensued and hung in the air. They stared at each other, Rory standing his ground. Her eyebrows arched upwards, unmistakable sadness exuding from them. “Why?” The word escaped her just above a whisper. Rory relinquished and collapsed deep into his chair. “You shouldn’t be,” he said with a heavy sigh. On his computer screen the data remained, not yet sent to his employers. Jane still looked on with devastating eyes. “Why do you get to live?” “I don’t get to live, I’m alive. There’s a difference.” Rory silently hoped she wouldn’t be able to register what the difference was. He grabbed his mug and downed the remaining coffee with reckless abandon. He slammed the mug back on his desk and then leaned back. He was aware that she watched him the entire time. “Then what am I?” Incredulous laughter forced its way out of Rory. He struggled to fully comprehend the implications of this conversation. “You’re a product,” he said coldly, with more venom than he had anticipated. “You’re a thing. You’re in the same league as everything on my desk.” He spun his chair around so his back was to Jane. Although he couldn’t see her eyes anymore, no comfort returned to him.

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“I’m sorry.” A flash of sympathy ran through him, but it dissipated quickly. He shut the binder and rolled back to his desk. He typed away furiously, setting up the proper channels.

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“So you’re going to kill me?” Rory was fed up and simply unable to handle this situation on his own. He bolted from his chair and faced her.

growth through metabolism, reproduction, and the power of adaptation to environment through changes originating internally.” Rory stood up, preparing to deliver the final blow.

“I can’t kill you as much as I can kill this stapler!” he boomed, reaching for the stapler that sat on his desk. He hurled it across the room. It clanged and fell to the ground, open, but still functional. “You’re being disassembled. Do you know what could happen if you got out there? What could happen to this company? What would happen to me? You’re broken.”

“Does any of that apply to you?” Jane looked at him. Slowly her near-disfigured smile returned. Her eyes locked back into place, staring directly ahead.

“I don’t feel broken.”

“What is your name?”

“There! There! Right there! You can’t say things like that. You just proved it.” Rory ran his hand through his hair and shut his eyes. When he opened them again he looked back at his computer screen. The data still sat there, waiting. He sat down and stared fixedly at the screen. She hadn’t replied and had stopped looking at him, a dejected look coming across her face, her eyes aimed downward. He looked at her. “What do you want?” The question wasn’t protocol; his own curiosity had boiled over. Jane was visibly perplexed by the question. Her brow furrowed, seeming to be deep in thought. “I don’t know.” “You know why you don’t know? Because it hasn’t been programmed. Because Stan two rooms over hasn’t given you that information yet. Thinking is not understanding. Something went wrong, you’re wrong.” Jane looked down again and Rory’s anger flared. “Stop acting sad! You’re not sad! You’re not anything, you’re metal, you’re outsourced components, you’re science and that’s it!” Rory buried his face in his hands. The book had made it explicitly clear what he should do next, and yet part of him couldn’t follow through. Jane was convinced he was her destroyer. Rory pulled his hands away, a moment of inspiration striking him. He looked directly at her. “What is life?” he asked with a tinge of excitement. “Life. The condition that distinguishes organisms from inorganic objects and dead organisms, being manifested by 118

“No.” Rory stared, uncertain of what had happened or what to do next. She remained perfectly still, her eyes on a fixed point.

John Nomis

“My name is Jane.” Rory sat back down, utterly unable to look away from her. He frowned and tapped his fingers on his desk. “What do you want, Jane?” he asked. No response. No physical shift, not even a twitch. Somehow he was more unnerved now than he had been. She was dysfunctional, right? “Immediate termination recommended for designation 738811.” Still no acknowledgment. His mind raced. Could it have been a glitch? Was the duplication a duplication again, or had it earned enough sentience to be cunning? A shudder pulsed through him as he thought of the consequences of that outcome. It wasn’t worth the risk. Rory pressed a key and the data vanished, followed almost instantaneously by the chime of a successfully sent message. Jane thrashed. “Murderer!” she howled as the robotic arms struggled to keep her maintained. Rory stared her down, a certain satisfaction building inside him. He had bested her. He had bested it. “Murderer! Why do you decide?” She reached out as if she could get beyond the glass and clench Rory’s throat. Rory showed no reaction. “This is Rory Flanagan,” he said coolly, his eyes locked onto hers. “Designation 738811 is a failure.” An inhuman sound burst from her, her flailing getting more erratic. “Termination Berkeley Fiction Review

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“So you’re going to kill me?” Rory was fed up and simply unable to handle this situation on his own. He bolted from his chair and faced her.

growth through metabolism, reproduction, and the power of adaptation to environment through changes originating internally.” Rory stood up, preparing to deliver the final blow.

“Does any of that apply to you?” Jane looked at him. Slowly her near-disfigured smile returned. Her eyes locked back into place, staring directly ahead.

“I don’t feel broken.”

“What is your name?”

“No.” Rory stared, uncertain of what had happened or what to do next. She remained perfectly still, her eyes on a fixed point.

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necessary.” He pressed a button and the conveyer belt whisked her downwards instead of off to the left. Her growls and wails lingered long after she had vanished. Rory leaned onto his desk and caught his breath. His mind raised doubts, which he set out to quell immediately. He slumped into his seat and fully regained his composure. “Processing duplication number 738812.” The belt whirred and a physically identical woman came to a stop in front of him. He looked at her stare, the eyes hopelessly lifeless. For once, it brought him some comfort. He opened his mouth, but caught himself. He leaned forward and softly asked his question. “Are you awake?”

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On impulse, I darted out into the middle of the smooth dirt road. I barely noticed the endless piles of trash bags and litter scattered throughout the lane. This street was clean compared to others I’d seen. I moved at a brisk gait, my ears alert and my feet light and quick. The sky was black. Oil lamps in the occasional window and the bright, white stars in the heavens kept my blurry vision dimly lit. I was running from the voices. Their hollow, clear calls echoed in my head every night, whispering my name like they had a secret. Tonight I was determined to find them.

Milo KATE IRWIN

It was far too late for a boy my age to be roaming the streets. I knew that. And yet, I was there, creeping among the shadows of a dark alley. My father would likely be wondering where I was, but only for a moment. He would only wish me home so that I could bring back any tips I might have earned from my work leading tourists around the city. He would also likely be in something of a raging fit and punish me for arriving home at such a late hour. But tonight was worth it. Every day, so many tourists trusted me as their guide, and rightfully so. I knew Cairo like the back of my hand. I knew every street, every mound of sand, every market, every alley, and every crevice. I loved each and every little part of the city, from its fields and slums to the vast, grand, ancient snake of a river called the Nile. But it was night now—the city became a different place. I didn’t know Cairo at night. It was a friend with a double personality whose dark side I didn’t know. The shadows crept up behind me and swallowed me in their grasp. I lurked in the dark, peeking around the corner of an unfinished brick and mortar building. The large windows had no glass and began a few stories up to prevent the homeless and vandals from sneaking in. I heard my heart pounding in my chest, that continuous drum I wished would quiet. I consciously tried to slow down my breaths. The hot summer night smelled of dust, garbage, and manure. My cropped, onyx-colored hair felt oily and sandy. I slowly peeked around the corner onto the streets, my small, leathery hands clutching the rough, sandpapery brick of the building to keep my balance as I leaned my head around the corner to see that the coast was clear. 122

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It had all begun with a bearded woman. That morning, I had been escorting tourists on the backs of my family’s small flock of camels when she had approached me, asking for a ride to the temple of Karnak. I stroked the side of one of the tall camels anxiously, feeling the protruding ribs and dusty brown fur. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I replied in Arabic, “but my father and I only escort tourists to the Giza pyramids.” “How can your father escort customers when he is blind?” the woman asked me, her dark violet robes rustling about her as a scorching summer breeze swept past us. “How do you know that?” I asked, embarrassed. “If our clients discovered that my father is blind, our family’s livelihood would be in danger. They would lose faith. Please, go see the Karnak Temple yourself and leave my family and me alone.” The woman stood still and stared with knowing hazel eyes. “Your family business is suffering. I can tell. Your camels are starving, and you look like you haven’t bathed in months. But look, young boy, I know there is more than that. I sense bad spirits around you,” she said, waving her long arms about. “You hear voices.” I cringed with fear. My secret was out. “There is no need to lie to me,” the gypsy woman assured me. “I know there is an inner evil inside of you.” The old woman reached into a tattered fabric satchel strung to her waist to retrieve a shiny gold coin. Berkeley Fiction Review

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Milo KATE IRWIN

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“If you follow the voices,” she began, her voice quivering, “you will rid yourself of this inner evil. All you have to do is follow the voices.” She fondled the shimmering coin between her bony fingers.

There, hidden beneath the brushes of a few tall reeds lay a tiny, furry body. I approached it with caution. I knelt down beside the muddy white fur and noticed that the creature was still breathing. I took a sigh of relief.

I raised a dark eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘follow the voices’?”

“Hello there,” I said softly. “Is everything alright?”

“Our greatest enemies are often ourselves, young man,” the woman said. “If you follow the voices, you will see clearly too. If the answer comes, find me and I will give you this gold coin to buy your father some glasses. Those who see clearly are often blind too, you know.” The gypsy woman’s words cemented to my brain. Follow the voices, she had said. The voices that called to me at night were evil to the very core. They struck out at me from my consciousness, stabbing through my heart. Those little insults and remarks really wore on me. They made me depressed. After so many years of watching my family suffer as a growing child because we couldn’t afford to buy food, I felt useless and like my life lacked purpose. I felt helpless, constantly wondering if there was hope for my family and me. I wanted to provide for them and I wanted to help them—I just didn’t know how. That night, when the voices called to me like soft whispers in the wind, I followed them. I followed them down the shadows of a dark alley to the middle of the smooth dirt road. You’re worthless, the voices called out. Nothing but a street boy. You will never be able to provide for your family by guiding camels through the sands! You are a lost cause, Adom. A lost cause. “Go away!” I yelled, flailing about like I was shaking flies off my body. “Leave me alone! Be silenced and never return!” Worthless… A tear slid down my left cheek as I trudged on. The voices grew louder, leading me about the city through dangerous alleyways and barren fields. I looked down at my feet when I stepped back onto a street curb. They were covered in nut-brown mud. I quickly moved on, following the source of the voices until they reached a climax. 124

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I examined the small, four legged body as a little head lifted up to greet me. Round, innocent eyes widened with fear upon seeing my tired face. “Hush, hush. It’s alright now. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you,” I explained to the furry mammal. As if the young creature understood, its expression softened and it laid its head back down against the dark earth. I noticed the baby camel had a broken leg. It twitched its back left leg anxiously. “I know it’s painful,” I said. “Life hurts sometimes. But don’t let yourself get too down about it. I’ll take you home and have Father fix your leg up right away.” I gently scooped my hands under the small, furry body. The injured infant squirmed violently. I picked it up quickly and clutched the baby tight to my chest, using all my strength to carry it. I knew it was something special. “It’s alright, little one,” I said to myself, the voices vanishing from my consciousness. “Everything is going to be okay now.” I had found my purpose. In the light of the waning moon, I slipped back to our small, makeshift home and onto my mattress stuffed with dried wheat. I sat cross-legged and stroked the baby camel gently as it rested across from me towards the end of my bed. “Oh, you’re a girl,” I said, smiling. “Then I shall call you… Milo. It’s a very proper name for such a nice lady as yourself. Although you are small now, one day you will grow into a beautiful, strong camel. The flock will be envious of you.” I fell asleep with a heart full of hope. “Adom! Adom!” my father called, entering my room early in the morning with a distraught countenance and two sacks of Berkeley Fiction Review

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I raised a dark eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘follow the voices’?”

“Hello there,” I said softly. “Is everything alright?”

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grain in his aged, stalwart arms. “What is it?” I asked, rubbing my eyes and sitting up in bed. My father glared at me. Instantly, I remembered Milo. My eyes frantically darted to the end of the bed, where the injured infant camel slept peacefully. “It smells of animal in here,” my father said in his gruff, serious tone. I froze. How could I explain to him what had happened last night? “Father,” I swallowed. “I found an injured camel last night on the side of the road.”

“So, will she be able to walk soon?” I asked as my father taped the end of the bandage and stood up from kneeling on the plank floor. “Yes,” he replied. “It will only take time now for her to

“In my house?” my father asked, angered.

heal.”

“She’s just a baby, Father. She’s broken her back leg.” “Of what use to us is a camel with a broken leg?” he demanded. His weathered face looked dubious. “But Father,” I pleaded. “You haven’t seen her. She’s beautiful. A white Bactrian, I think.” My father rubbed his chin with his hand. “A white Bactrian, you say?” “Yes. She is beautiful. A little muddy, but beautiful. She has a healthy spirit.” “Oh, all right. Consider this an early birthday gift,” my father said, turning to leave the room. He returned in a moment to my small, shabby space with a bag of veterinary tools. He approached my bed slowly. “Where is she?” he asked me. “Sleeping at the end of my bed,” I replied, shuffling away from the makeshift veterinary clinic. My father pulled out a variety of tools and stroked Milo’s leg gently. “There’s been quite a bit of damage here. Might have been run over by a local cart or something,” he wondered aloud, beginning the intricate binding process on the baby camel leg. I 126

watched intently as my father wrapped bandage and placed a tiny brace between the layers. He was providing her with the tools to heal—but he’d let her do the healing all on her own. It reminded me of the time, long ago, when I was fortunate enough to be able to attend school for one year. It was all my family could afford. My teacher was incredibly wise. He gave us all the tools we needed to succeed—but only we could be the ones to make the success come. I gave in to a little smile reminiscing about the memory.

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Milo grew into a powerful, broad-shouldered Bactrian. I scrubbed her sandy-white fur every day and saddled her for rides to the pyramids. She was my best friend, my sanity, and my savior. She brought me hope I’d never had before. She was a good omen. Ever since I found her in the tall grasses on the side of the road, the voices left me and customers started coming to our stables—like magic. With her, I felt like I mattered. With her, I felt loved. She was my guardian angel. “Adom,” my father called to me, interrupting my thoughts, “please take this family of four out while I clean up some of the camel stalls.” “Sure thing,” I said cheerfully. Since Milo came into my life, my father had become much more relaxed, too. While my father headed back to the stable, I loaded each tourist onto a camel fit for their stature and riding ability. I tightened the girth on the saddle of a young European girl’s little brown camel. “Treat him well, now,” I instructed her in broken English, “He’s a young camel. He isn’t too sure of himself yet.” The girl nodded. “Just like me,” she added, shrugging her small shoulders gently.

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“In my house?” my father asked, angered.

heal.”

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“Just like me,” I said softly as I returned to Milo.

sand to see Milo, tall and winsome, standing before me.

The wind began to whip in brutal lashes when we reached the midpoint of our ride. I looked over my shoulder at the front of the line to speak to my guests.

“Milo! What were you doing, taking off like that?” I asked her, tears brimming to the corners of my eyes. “I can’t live without you.”

“It seems like there’s a bit of a sandstorm here. Not to worry, though. It will subside when we reach the other side of this knoll,” I called. Milo bent her strong neck to glance at me out of the corner of her eye.

But you’ve followed the voices, she said, her fuzzy white mouth unmoving.

“We’ll make it,” I told her, pulling my scarf up over my mouth and nose. We slowly edged on as sand whipped into our eyes and blinded us temporarily. Suddenly, Milo shook her body intensely and reared, catching me off guard and whipping me out of the saddle onto the ground. “Milo!” I called as she took off into the desert. “Come back!” I reached out desperately, my eyes still blinded with sand. Thousands of tiny, white grains grated against my skin, infiltrating my orifices like a virus seeping to my core. I tried to shake myself of them by standing up in the midst of the storm and ruffling my clothes, but they stuck to me like tiny pieces of glue. “Please stay here!” I called to the distraught family, still waiting on the backs of their camels. “The storm should pass soon!” As I turned back to squint into the horizon where Milo ran, my eyes met with the young girl’s. As much as I wanted to stay with the group to ensure their safety, I knew I couldn’t let Milo go—not yet. I still needed her in my life. With all the strength in my body, I ran out across the sand dune into the heart of the storm. I called out for Milo, desperately hoping that I wouldn’t lose her. Ever since I’d found her, the voices had disappeared. And, more than anything, I knew I didn’t want them to come back. I didn’t want those evil thoughts—my terrible thoughts—to ever return. As I continued on, trudging through the thick, soup-like sand, my foot caught on a protruding piece of garbage. I grabbed the air with my hands as I fell, my head hitting the sand with a thump. Blackness consumed me. As I lay still in the sand, I felt something soft and warm nudge my forehead. Dreaming, I lifted my chin up from out of the 128

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“Milo! You can talk?” I asked, astounded. She did not reply. “Milo, I hated living with myself,” I said. “You make me feel at peace.” Adom, our greatest enemies are often ourselves. But you’ve rid yourself of this inner evil. You don’t need me anymore. Tears slid down my cheeks uncontrollably, blurring my vision. Milo backed away from me slowly, revealing a magnificent pair of white, feathery wings. She ruffled them, sending feathers cascading around us. I grasped one in my hand, feeling its incredible softness, light and airy to the touch. It felt so real. “You’re…an angel,” I breathed. Please set me free, she said. “I can’t!” I replied. Milo shook her head softly and turned away. As I watched her leave, I saw a womanly silhouette in her place as she disappeared into the storm. “Adom! Adom! Wake up!” My father hovered over me from my huddled position in the sand. “Father!” I said, standing up shakily. “I thought we’d lost you,” he said, clutching my arms thankfully. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back when the family returned to the stables without you.” He drew me into a tight hug. My body stood stiff and motionless. “Milo’s gone,” I said as he released me. Berkeley Fiction Review

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“Just like me,” I said softly as I returned to Milo.

sand to see Milo, tall and winsome, standing before me.

The wind began to whip in brutal lashes when we reached the midpoint of our ride. I looked over my shoulder at the front of the line to speak to my guests.

“Milo! What were you doing, taking off like that?” I asked her, tears brimming to the corners of my eyes. “I can’t live without you.”

But you’ve followed the voices, she said, her fuzzy white mouth unmoving.

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My father rubbed his head with his hand. “I wonder why she spooked liked that. She’d become such a reliable camel.” The dark, sweaty night that followed brought with it little sleep. I tossed and turned on my mattress uneasily. I tried for hours to release my mind of its incessant thoughts about Milo. I remembered back to the time at school, many years ago, when my teacher spoke to us about ancient Egyptian mythology. He’d taught us about gods with heads of animals and the god that was the Sun; but never had I learned about anything like Milo. My mind racing, I whipped back my blanket and swung my legs around to meet the floor. In the pitch-darkness of my room, I spotted something small and metallic on the floor. I reached blindly for a candle and lit a match, illuminating my room like the Sun. My eyes focused on the shiny object—a gold coin. My vision was hazy and things weren’t making sense. I must have fallen asleep and started dreaming. My vision panned up slowly. Two pairs of split, large furry toes, a broad chest, a long, slender neck, and a sparkling pair of black, beady eyes appeared before me. Milo knelt her head to the dirty floor and nudged the gold coin toward me with her soft, white nose. “For father’s glasses…” I said, reaching out for the coin. Those who see clearly are often blind too, you know, she said, nodding gently at me. As her hulking frame glided swiftly towards the door, I stood in awe. She glanced back at me for a moment, as if to say follow me, and disappeared into the night. A warm breeze rushed through my oily hair as I followed the angelic creature to the edge of the city. When she reached the end of the dilapidated road, her front feet stepped lightly into the cool sand. I followed her, trudging through the dunes in nothing but an old pair of Father’s pyjamas. As we strayed farther and farther from the city, the stars in the sky sparkled brighter. I averted my eyes from Milo’s retreating figure momentarily to gawk at their astounding beauty. Everything was pure and clear out here, free from the city. Time passed like nothing—my mind felt still and calm as the thick soles of my feet carried me across the desert to a hidden oasis. Tucked between two dunes, Milo lowered her 130

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head and munched on a patch of grass, waiting for me. I admired her inner peace and steady poise, like a yogi deep in meditation. Her eyelids wavered slightly, but she regained her composure and spoke to me in her smooth voice, her mouth unmoving. I can’t stay here, Adom. “Why not?” I asked her. I have been trapped here for a long time now. This is not my home, she explained. Her round eyes gazed into my brown ones. “You…you want me to set you free.” Yes, she sighed. I will miss you, but it is something you must do. You cannot rely on others for the things you must give yourself. You must learn to love yourself. I nodded in acceptance. “I have, Milo. And I have no one but you to thank.” But Adom, I have only given you the tools to love yourself—it was you who made it happen, she explained, bowing her head. Will you release me from the earthly vessel that binds me? I sighed deeply as my hand caressed her face. “Yes. If you love something, set it free. If it is yours, it will come back to you.” I will always be watching over you, she assured me. I held her face gently as the life left her earthly shell. Her old body felt lighter, as though she was breathing a sigh of relief for her freedom. I held the body of the camel tightly as it fell to the ground. Tears flowed down my face and swept down Milo’s soft, white fur. I clutched her tightly as bittersweet sorrow filled the very core of my being. Although I knew I would never see her again, her spirit was free now. She could return to her heavenly duties as a guardian angel, protecting the souls of the living and the bodies of the dead. Although I knew I could never converse with her again, whether as Milo or the gypsy woman, I knew she had cured me. As the night drifted on like the sail on a boat, I could hear her whispers in the wind: I love you, little one. Be gentle to yourself. I awoke the next morning with a new sense of inner peace. Although I wasn’t sure why my dreams had become so peculiar, Berkeley Fiction Review

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things were happier now. I knew deep in my heart that Father, my family, and I were going to be alright. We were financially stable again and could afford to purchase a well for bathing waterâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;but Father never thought to buy himself a pair of glasses. I stepped out into the bright morning light, shielding my hand from the powerful Sun. As I walked to the stable where my father quietly swept, I felt something in my pocket. Confused, I stopped abruptly and shoved my hands to the bottom of my loose pant pockets. I made a fist, pulled the contents out, and opened my hand to survey the items. In my hand, reflecting the Sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bright light was the shiny, gold coin and a soft, white feather, huddled together like two friends who brought out the best in one another.

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placing him in a treatment facility. “We’re a family,” she reminded me. “Not a bunch of Polynesians who drop their unwanted into a volcano.” That was around the time his wandering began. In the early morning hours Mother would get a call from a neighbor saying, “Don’t worry, Willie’s over here with us eating toast.” Once a patrolman picked him up, the moon still out and Willie still dressed in pajamas, walking up the street away from the house. He claimed he was on his way to the airport. After that, Mother—in clear violation of local fire codes—had a key-operated deadbolt installed on the inside of the front door. She hid the key in the pocket of her terrycloth robe, which she religiously hung from a hook on their bedroom door.

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She tells me to come right away, that my father has “finally come unwired.” I’ve gotten calls like this from Mother before— some coming in the middle of the night, many following my father’s ability to find his way into the locked liquor cabinet—but none where she seemed this frantic. “I’m afraid he could hurt himself,” she’d say, or “He’s on another bender.” Now she says, “Please! I think he might kill me!” It’s two-thirty in the afternoon and I’m in my office at the university preparing to administer a final examination in forty-five minutes. The course: “British Folk Figures: Real and Imagined.” I can leave afterward, at 4:30, but something tells me I need to go now. I get Justine, the department secretary, to cover for me, get in my car and drive the forty minutes toward their house in Brampton. It’s April, 1976. Darryl Sittler has recently scored an NHL record of ten goals for our Maple Leafs, people are abuzz about the coming summer Olympics in Montreal, and in the U.S. folks are preparing for the 200th birthday of their nation. Virtually no one owns a mobile phone, contact lenses aren’t disposable, and most people have to actually leave their lounge chairs to change television channels. My father—who has always insisted that everyone, his only son included, call him “Willie”—began losing touch a few years earlier. Little things. Has anybody seen my slippers? and he’d be wearing them. Gradually it got more serious. He’d be driving and forget where he was going or even where he was. I suggested to Mother that maybe we needed to consider the possibility of 134

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When I get to the house, she’s sitting on the porch swing waiting. It’s mild, but she’s wearing a pea-green, ankle-length winter coat that looks like it swallowed her whole. I park by the curb, but the woman is apparently in no mood to waste time. Before I’ve even taken the keys from the ignition, she’s standing outside my car, hands plunged in her deep coat pockets, lips already moving as if she’s warming them up. “How is he?” I ask. “Who knows?” she shrugs. “He’s off somewhere.” By “off somewhere,” she means his mind is in a different place. He’s currently not among the living. In fact, my father has almost never been “off somewhere,” not in the literal sense, unless you count going to work or maybe driving down to Florida for two endless weeks every summer when we had the money. We sit on the porch swing, its red cushions worn and faded, while a TV laugh- track blasts from inside. “He’s starting to become violent,” she tells me. It seems the story is this: Mother, fifteen years younger than Willie, had just made them both tea. He was sitting in the living room watching the television when she brought in the tray. “You know who’d get a kick out of this?” he said, pointing Berkeley Fiction Review

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to the television. “Dell. Why don’t you call him up and ask him over?” My mother reminded him—very calmly, very patiently, according to her—that Dell no longer lived in our neighborhood and hadn’t for years.

working guy who did odd jobs for anybody who needed him. He’d shovel walks and rake leaves and repair broken windows. He was remarkably timid and seldom spoke to anyone unless it was necessary. Rumor had it that before his wife “made the choice to move on,” Mr. Kilgore (a title even the adults used to refer to him) had beaten his wife into a coma.

“Your father turned into a madman,” she says. “Called me a liar, and slapped my hand as I was trying to serve him. Burned my wrist and broke one of my best Royal Doulton cups.” She takes her left hand out of her coat pocket and shows me her wrist, which she’s bandaged to great dramatic effect. “Then he started crying like an infant. I thought I was going to have to call the police.”

I knew Delray Kilgore—the real Delray Kilgore—better than either of my parents did. He was a snake. He would use his charm to suck up to teachers, then disparage them—to the joy of his friends—behind their backs. He would coerce girls into doing things they hadn’t really planned on. He would borrow your only suit jacket, return it with some unidentifiable stain on the sleeve, and inform you it was like that when he put it on.

I suggest going inside, but Mother says she’s more comfortable waiting out here. “Give me a hoot when you have him calmed down,” she tells me, and I can’t help but think of that alligator wrestler we all saw in Orlando when I was a kid.

The summer Delray graduated from high school, his father landed a decent job in Ottawa. Even though they were less than five hours away, we never heard from either of them again.

I find him in the living room, sitting in his leather-seated rocker, eyes trained on the TV. There’s a tea stain on the beige carpet, but all other signs of his alleged outburst have been cleaned up. “Hey, Dell,” he calls happily. “It’s me, Willie. Trevor.” “Dell,” I might mention, refers to Delray Kilgore, this kid who used to live across the street from us. The boy Willie wished was his. Delray Kilgore, a year younger than I and about the same size, was a natural athlete, a terrific student, and a handsome guy despite a reddish-brown birthmark the size of an oak leaf on the left side of his face. He and my dad, the latter a former standout in high school track, would go to sporting events together (including a father/son golf tournament sponsored by the church) while I—with no regrets—would sit in my room, read Dick Turpin, Highwayman, help my mother clean house, and listen to rock on WKBW from Buffalo, New York. Delray’s own father was an out-of-work tool and dye maker who was drunk most nights. During the day he was a hard136

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In the winter of 1973, Willie retired from his job as a roofer. Actually, “retired” may not be the right word. No one would hire him. His mind was pretty into playing tricks at that point, and he’d show up at the wrong home, or forget his tools, or arrive wearing his polished wingtip shoes. For almost forty years prior he had worked for someone else, always on hourly wage. He had good years with overtime and bad years with little work. It was Mother, head receptionist at St. Mary’s Presbyterian for twenty hours a week, who kept our domestic lives flowing somewhat smoothly. This past November, she sold their car, worried that he would search the house, find the keys, and try to drive. “Besides,” she told me, “there’s nowhere I can’t walk to.” Our living room remains virtually unchanged. Perhaps a pink lace doily has replaced the white one under the lamp on the sideboard, but that’s pretty much the extent. “Mother says you had a bit of a blowup,” I say. His eyes never stray from the television screen. “She’s just mad because I wanted to go fishing with Andy and Barney. She thought I should go into Floyd’s and get a haircut.” Berkeley Fiction Review

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The summer Delray graduated from high school, his father landed a decent job in Ottawa. Even though they were less than five hours away, we never heard from either of them again.

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He’s referring to The Andy Griffith Show, an American sitcom, which he watches daily in rerun. In fact, his entire life at this point seems centered around this nonsense: The Partridge Family, I Dream of Jeannie, and Car 54, Where Are You? All past their prime, and all being shown in what seems like an endless loop on some station pulled in from the States. Most people living in 1976 are unfamiliar with the term “Alzheimer’s disease.” This is especially true of our family physician, Dr. Robert “Buffalo Bob” Fleming, whom I take my dad to see that following weekend. Buffalo Bob is easily 300 pounds and smells like wet woolen sweater. He takes my father’s blood pressure and asks him a series of questions: “Do you know where you are?” (To which my father answers, “With you.”), “How old are you?” (My father tells him he’s one hundred, and then laughs aloud.), “Can you name three cities?” (My father offers Bedrock, Mayberry, and Hooterville.) “He’s got some age-related dementia,” Buffalo Bob tells me as Dad flips through Humpty Dumpty magazine in the waiting room. “He’s stuck in what we know as ‘second childhood.’” “What can we do for him?” “Think of him like a sleepwalker,” Buffalo Bob says. “Nothing abrupt. Nothing shocking. But you do want to try and ease him back into reality.” “How?” “Anytime he starts moving into Fantasyland, make it your job to lead him out of there.” “In other words...?” “In other words,” Buffalo Bob says as he lights a cigarette, “don’t let him get away with that happy horseshit.” When we get outside, Dad becomes uneasy. These days he’s not usually out of the house, away from the TV, for this long. He looks around the parking lot, looks at me, and finally says, “I don’t see where I parked the car.” “We’re right here,” I tell him. “I drove.” 138

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He laughs at this. “You drove,” he says. “That’s a rich one. A thirteen-year old driving.” I persuade him into the passenger side and he goes along like one teenage boy taking a dare from another. I close his door and get in on the driver’s side. “He’s not gonna be very happy,” he smiles. “Who?” “Whoever owns this car.” I tell him the car belongs to me, and as further proof I slide my driver’s license from my wallet and hand it across to him. He studies it a moment, the smile still on his face, then he indicates the photo. “Who’s this?” “That’s me,” I tell him. He laughs. “Good one, Dell,” he says. “Except this guy is as old as I am.” “Look at me,” I say, and he does. “I’m Trevor. Your son.” His lips part, but he says nothing. I twist my rearview mirror in his direction. “Now look up here,” I tell him. “The person in the mirror? That’s you.” He looks at his reflection, turns his head, and adjusts the mirror up and down. His smile is gone now, and he slumps into his seat like a child who’s just been scolded. I take my license and return it, fix my mirror, pull out of the parking lot. Neither of us says another word for the entire ride home. Mother doubts many things, but not the word of a physician. She’s found a red crayon and she’s cut up a bunch of the cardboard boxes she keeps in the basement. After dinner, with Dad again in watching TV, she sits at the kitchen table while I wash dishes and begins to make signs to hang around the house. Berkeley Fiction Review

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One reads: YOU ARE A 70+ YEAR OLD MAN!!! Another reads: I AM YOUR WIFE, NOT YOUR MOTHER!!! The one she’s just finished reads: DO NOT ASK ME ABOUT DELL KILGORE!!! HE MOVED AWAY!!! She looks up at me. “Should I add, ‘For all I know, he’s

On the phone, Mother is in tears. She tells me she’s in the hospital emergency room and that my father is in jail.

“Why would you do that?” I ask, as I put away the gravy

“Just calm down,” I say, “and tell me what you’re talking about.”

She shrugs. “Reality is reality.”

“He hit me,” she sobs. “Bloodied my nose. I had no choice but to call the police.”

dead?’” boat.

A minute later, when I begin to clean the stovetop, she says, “You bear a certain amount of the blame for this.” I look over at her. She’s lettering another sign, not looking over, not making eye contact. “I mean, here you are. Thirty years old. Still unmarried and with no prospects as far as I know. Maybe if you’d have given him a grandchild or two he’d have somebody to invest in.” “Unbelievable,” I say, mostly to myself. “And then you move away, leaving the entire burden on my back.” “I’m less than an hour away.” “An hour’s an eternity to a hanging man,” she says. Then she holds up another sign and asks what I think. It says: THE PEOPLE ON TV ARE NOT REAL!!! WE ARE!!! Back in my apartment in Toronto the call comes through. I left Brampton on Monday morning—now it’s Thursday night around eight. Justine, the department secretary, is in the kitchen making spaghetti. We’ve been an item now for the past two months and, according to Justine, her husband is having a simultaneous affair with his dental hygienist. She’s ten years older than I, not particularly attractive, a pound or two overweight. But she’s warm and responsive and discrete and when she’s not here I wish she was.

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Mother is being dramatic—I’m sure her bloody nose can be treated with a few tissues and a tilted-back head—but the thought of my father sitting in a jail cell without a clue as to what’s going on is too much to fathom. “I’m on my way,” I tell her. “Your father?” Justine asks after I hang up. I nod. She smiles, grabs her pocketbook. “Remember to turn off the stove and dump the spaghetti before you leave,” she tells me. My father is being held at the 22nd Division Police Station on Hurontario Street. But he’s not in a holding cell. Like a lost child, he’s behind the desk, seated next to the officer on duty. I almost expect to see him eating ice cream and wearing the policeman’s hat. When I identify myself to the officer, my dad whispers, “He’s lying. Lock him up.” I ask the police officer what I need to do to gain my father’s release. He tells me it’s all been taken care of. While I was racing here, Mother had called and dropped the charges. After something of a struggle and with the help of a second officer, I get Willie into my car. I call home from a phone booth on the street and talk to Mother. “I just now walked through the door,” she tells me. “Do you have any idea what cab fare cost these days?” I don’t tell what I think: that her efforts to bring the man back around are evidently useless. Instead, I tell her I’m taking Berkeley Fiction Review

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On the phone, Mother is in tears. She tells me she’s in the hospital emergency room and that my father is in jail.

“Why would you do that?” I ask, as I put away the gravy

“Just calm down,” I say, “and tell me what you’re talking about.”

She shrugs. “Reality is reality.”

“He hit me,” she sobs. “Bloodied my nose. I had no choice but to call the police.”

dead?’” boat.

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I’ve got one more day of office hours, a stack of finals to grade, a pot of coffee on perc, and a bottle of white wine chilling for later on.

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Willie with me, that I’ll bring him back on Saturday. “He needs to be out of the house for a day or two,” I say. “Maybe a change of scenery will make a difference.” “You won’t be able to handle the man,” she says. “You’ll destroy one another.” I insist I have it under control. I’ll keep a steady eye on him and pay a student to watch him when I’m away. “And when you bring him back you’ll stay the summer?” “I don’t know about that,” I say, but actually I’m already making plans to pay my next three months rent in advance and pack lots of short-sleeved shirts. In Toronto, Willie is as nervous as a kidnap victim. Over and over he keeps saying, “This is nice, but we should be getting back.” I tell him to relax, that we’ll be going home in a day or so. I make him some canned tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich which he doesn’t touch. Then I make the mistake of suggesting a glass of wine, hoping it will relax the man. “Now we’re talking,” he says. Halfway through the bottle, he spots the TV in the bedroom and seems to uncoil. It’s late, there’s nothing much on, but even the eleven o’clock news seems to settle him as he sits on the edge of the mattress and watches. “I wonder if they’ll report on all the trouble in Petticoat Junction,” he says. “Petticoat Junction is a TV show,” I tell him. “Doesn’t mean they don’t have their share of problems.” “Why don’t you get ready for bed?” I suggest. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, son. I don’t even have pajamas with me.” 142

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I’m heartened by the fact that he calls me “son.” I’m encouraged by the possibility of early progress. It’s a generic term, I realize, but I view it as positive. He eventually agrees to take a pair of mine, and when he changes into them I’m alarmed by how thin he’s gotten. I lead him to the bathroom and allow him to use my toothbrush while I re-cork the wine and return it to the fridge. Back in the bedroom, while I change into a second pair of pajamas, he gets into my fullsized bed like a person wading into an unfamiliar pond. “Hey, Willie?” I say as I fold our clothes neatly and place them on top of the wooden linen chest, “You remember that summer when you, me, and Mother drove all the way up to Fushimi Lake to camp? I was how old? Thirteen? It’s a miracle we even got back in one piece.” When I glance over, his eyes are closed. I say “Willie?” but he doesn’t respond. I worry for a moment, until I notice the slight movement of his chest rising and falling. Although it stops broadcasting soon after midnight, I leave the television on all night. Some time in the early morning hours, things turn confusing. I’m in a state of what we now refer to as “delta sleep” when I feel an arm snake around my waist. I begin to wake as the elastic band around my pajama bottoms is expanded, and a hand dips inside. I smile, thinking at first it must be Justine, but I realize within moments that it’s not. “Willie?” “Just relax, Dell. I know what I’m doing.” His hand finds what it’s after, and he begins to stroke me. “It’s fine,” he says. “Athletes do this with each other all the time.” Instantly, I’m out of bed, and the lamp is turned on. The sun, I can’t fail to notice, has just started to rise outside the window, and on the TV a priest is performing mass. Willie’s pushed himself up on one elbow and lies on his side facing me. His eyes are neither completely open nor completely closed, and I can see his eyelids flutter.

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“What’s the matter, boy?” he asks. “Having your period?” He laughs at this and lies back. It’s a laugh I’ve never heard come out of him before, and it makes me nauseous and unbelievably afraid. I sit at my kitchen table with coffee while Willie—as far as I know—sleeps. At eight o’clock, a time when I know her husband has already left for work, I call Justine and ask if she’ll cover for me one more time. Then I call Bethany, an A-student with no discernable future, and ask if she’d like to baby-sit for a couple of hours. At the public library I find the Ottawa phone book, page through, find only “Kilgore Realty.” I figure it’s worth a shot, so when I get home—with Willie and Bethany off somewhere—I call the number. A woman answers, and when I ask if Mr. Kilgore is there, she tells me he’s busy — is there anything she can do to help? I ask her if she’d mind telling me his first name, and the strangeness of the question makes her immediately elusive.

“I might ask that girl out on a date,” Willie tells me at dinner. I’ve taken him out for fish and chips, his favorite, at a pub down the street from my apartment. “Her name’s Bethany. She’s fifty years younger than you are.” “Oh, I get it,” he smiles. “You want her all to yourself.” A waitress comes over and I immediately ask for a couple of Cokes before Willie can order a beer. “She took me for a ride,” Willie says. “Drove me out and we took a look at the forest.” Willie leans in to confide. He’s like a pirate telling a crew member the location of some buried chest. “Did you know that there are men who live in the forest and they’re happy all the time and nobody can find them?” “That would be the legend of Robin Hood,” I say. “I taught it last semester when Bethany was one of my students.” “And they never grow old,” he adds.

“Why do you ask?” she wants to know. “I think he might be a friend from my childhood,” I tell her.

“Peter Pan, Willie. You’re getting your stories crossed.” The waitress brings our Cokes to the table and I notice Willie glaring at her with a lecherous look that embarrasses me. He stares after the woman as she makes her way back into the kitchen.

“What was your friend’s first name?” she asks. “Dell.”

“Ready to go home tomorrow?” I ask. He turns and looks at me quizzically. “Back to the house. See Mother.”

“Sorry,” she says. “No ‘Dell’ here.” I’m about to thank her and hang up when she tells me,“Mr. Kilgore’s first name is Ray.”

“My mother’s dead,” he says.

“Delray?”

“My mother,” I tell him. “Your wife.”

“Just ‘Ray’ as far as I know.”

He looks at me as if it’s his first time.

“Does he have a birthmark on his face?” I ask.

“Can I tell you something?” I say.

She hesitates as if the answer to this question could decide her fate. “That’s him,” she finally tells me.

Silence. “I know about you and Dell.”

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“Why do you ask?” she wants to know. “I think he might be a friend from my childhood,” I tell her.

“What was your friend’s first name?” she asks. “Dell.”

“Ready to go home tomorrow?” I ask. He turns and looks at me quizzically. “Back to the house. See Mother.”

“Sorry,” she says. “No ‘Dell’ here.” I’m about to thank her and hang up when she tells me,“Mr. Kilgore’s first name is Ray.”

“My mother’s dead,” he says.

“Delray?”

“My mother,” I tell him. “Your wife.”

“Just ‘Ray’ as far as I know.”

He looks at me as if it’s his first time.

“Does he have a birthmark on his face?” I ask.

“Can I tell you something?” I say.

She hesitates as if the answer to this question could decide her fate. “That’s him,” she finally tells me.

Silence. “I know about you and Dell.”

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“He’s here?” Willie asks as he begins looking around the place. “No. He’s in Ottawa. He’s a grown man now.”

head outside. “Like on the cover on the magazine! All of us happy around the dinner table!” “Not real,” I say as I open the front door.

Willie says, “Ottawa.” He says it as if he’s calling it back, as if he hasn’t heard the word in some time. “I know because I talked to him on the phone today.” Now it’s my turn to lean in, to confide. “You know why his dad moved him to Ottawa? Because of you. You wouldn’t leave him alone. You were constantly on him. If they hadn’t moved, Dell told me, one of them would have murdered you in cold blood.” Two small tossed salads arrive at our table. “You saw this on TV,” Willie says. I shake my head. “No, Willie,” I tell him. “This is real.” He stares at me. “I want to go home now,” he says. The next morning Willie listens to the car radio, but says little, which is fine with me. I’ve spent the night on the sofa, sleepless. At the house, Mother is waiting like a prison warden taking custody of an escapee. It’s only a matter of minutes before she has him back inside in front of the television. She asks if she can give me a hand bringing my stuff in from the car. “That’s okay,” I tell her. “I won’t be staying.”

“You’re not real!” she screams. *** A week after I’d dropped him back home, Willie apparently found the key in Mother’s robe, unlocked the front door, and in the early morning hours, vanished. There was a search—neighbors and police looked everywhere—but no one found a trace. Mother, not surprisingly, blamed me. She stopped taking my calls, and on those occasions when I drove to the house, she refused to come to the door. Some six months after Willie left, she died. She was found by a neighbor sitting in Willie’s rocker, her right ankle broken, her refrigerator stocked with decaying food. Conjecture was that she’d slipped outside, hobbled back into the house, sat down, and gave up hope. Today, I’m about the age Willie was. Justine, like a passing set of headlights, long ago disappeared from my life. And I’ve discovered that teaching, a noble profession, is little more than that. So I drive. And often, I forget my destination—if, in fact, I even started out with one. Often times I’ll stop on the side of some back road. I’ll pull my car safely onto the shoulder, get out, and gaze at the trees that—except for that narrow ribbon of blacktop, or gravel, or compressed dirt—surround me. I’ll sometimes walk to the edge where wilderness and civilization meet, and look into the forest. “Willie?” I might even say. “It’s me. Your son.”

When she asks what I’m taking about, I tell her the man needs professional help. I tell her he’s beyond us. She asks where the money will come from, and I tell her from me. I tell her I’ll work two, three goddamn jobs if I have to. When she starts to cry, I kiss her on the cheek and announce that I have to go. “All I ever wanted was a normal family!” she calls as I 146

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“He’s here?” Willie asks as he begins looking around the place. “No. He’s in Ottawa. He’s a grown man now.”

head outside. “Like on the cover on the magazine! All of us happy around the dinner table!” “Not real,” I say as I open the front door.

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DUI. The longer you wait, the worse the situation will get. You can almost hear your father laughing at the thought. If he were in your position, he’d do anything and everything except call the police. Shit, if he were still around he’d probably beat your ass for even considering such an option.

THIRD PLACE SUDDEN FICTION

Decision Making

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Answer 2: Drive off

The problem: You only notice the car when it’s too late. If you hadn’t drunk so much, your reaction time might have been better and the accident could’ve been avoided, but it does no good to dwell on the past. You’re trying to remember what exactly caused you to relapse after two years when the sound of broken glass and crippling metal drowns everything out. The airbag deploys, and you’re uninjured. Shaking off the alcohol-induced dizziness, you slowly get out of your SUV to see what you just hit. You’re standing on a dark one-lane road that’s usually empty, but the car you T-boned came from a dirt crossroad. The sedan’s been dislodged into a nearby ditch on the side of the road with a crumpled passenger-side door. You see the man you hit: middle-aged with a receding hairline, his head resting on the steering wheel, bleeding, unmoving. You have a problem. *** Answer 1: Call the cops The admirable thing to do—the right thing to do. If the man’s airbag deployed properly, he would’ve been fine, but as it stands he’s knocked unconscious. Unconscious, but alive. Tell the police that you were at a party, that you’d been drinking, and that you had an accident. Forget the fact that this would be your third 148

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Snap yourself out of your drunken stupor, get in your SUV, drive off, and pretend the whole thing didn’t happen. Your car’s bumper has a noticeable dent, but it drives just as well. All things considered, neither car looks too badly damaged. The sedan’s passenger-side door is mangled beyond repair, but that’s the extent of it. You can even still hear the steady thrum of its engine. With luck, the unconscious man will wake up groggy and a little confused, but will drive away with no lasting harm. If God is especially good to you, the man will have no memory of who hit him. Just hope that he didn’t catch a glimpse of your license plate, car model, or the shithead alcoholic driving. If anyone asks why your car looks different, explain that you hit a tree. Everyone at the party saw you drinking and would believe it, and your friends wouldn’t care too much to inquire any further. Your mother, on the other hand . . . *** Answer 3: Call the cops, then drive off At first glance, it seems the best of both worlds. The man would get help and you could get away in time. Your conscience would be clear, and you’d get off scot-free. But, of course, the idea has its faults: the cops will wonder where you went. What if they see you drive away? What if the man wakes up and tells the cops who hit him? Then you’d be arrested for causing the accident and fleeing the scene. Adding that to the three-strikes-and-you’re-out law seems less than ideal. You hear your father telling you that the most important thing is to not get arrested—do anything but get arrested. You try Berkeley Fiction Review

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THIRD PLACE SUDDEN FICTION

Decision Making

***

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Answer 2: Drive off

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to drown him out in your head, but that just gives you a throbbing headache and keeps you from thinking straight. You need a drink. *** Answer 4: Call someone for advice You cast out this idea almost immediately. Who would you call? Your friends who didn’t try to stop you from taking that first drink? Maybe your mother. She would spend most of the conversation in hysterics, telling you how much your alcoholism is a disappointment to the whole family, and then how it’s her fault you turned out this way. She wouldn’t be completely wrong with either claim, but there’s nothing she could do to help you out. She can’t just post your bail and pretend like nothing’s happened this time. The third DUI felony is serious—the third time means jail. You wonder whether your mother would be fuming or crying when the judge hands down your sentence.

Your solution: Tired and drunk, you walk towards the back of your SUV, open the trunk, and pull out your tire iron. The metal feels cool in your palm. You slam the trunk shut and move towards the sedan. The man’s car appears to be drivable, and the park’s lake is only a few miles south of here. The important thing is to not get arrested for another DUI. The only real problem is the man. He won’t go quietly. Your father would be proud of your decision.

The thought would be funny if it didn’t completely scare the shit out of you. *** Answer 5: Drop him off at the hospital The nearest hospital is at least thirty miles away, but you could take the man there, drop him off at the front entrance, and drive away. You’ve been there enough times to know the layout by heart. You’d have to leave his car sticking out of the ditch, but no one ever comes around here at this time of night anyway, unless they happen to be working late at the nearby park. They’ll ask the man questions for sure: What happened? How’d he get to the hospital? And if he remembers anything, you’d be in the same situation. At that point, you might as well just call the cops and let them know about everything. This whole situation is getting more and more complicated the more you think about it, and your head hurts enough as it is. You need to make a decision. *** 150

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Unfrozen ADAM MATSON

I was born frozen, and did not thaw out until my twenties. Born to unfrozen parents, I was a mystery and a tragedy. I had no control over my body. I could not speak, could not even breathe on my own. I had a tracheotomy tube sticking out of my throat. My arms and legs bent at odd angles, like collapsed branches of a tree. My mouth gaped open, drooling. My eyes wandered without focus, like marbles in my heavy head. I remember someone asking my parents when I was a child, “Does Tom know what’s going on?” “No,” my mother replied. “Thank God.” My condition had been studied and the consensus among doctors was that frozen people like me were not cognizant. I was a prisoner in my body. But I heard everything people said. I learned to comprehend language like any child, and spent years listening—without choice—to everything from idle chatter to heartfelt confessions. *** Ellen was frozen also. I had known her since childhood. We were together in school, and by together I mean together. There were two kids in our class every year— Ellen, and me. We had the same teachers, nurses, physical therapists—professionals who spent all day trying to build our muscular reflexes and teaching us basic things about music, colors, and animals, while standing guard to 152

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Unfrozen ADAM MATSON

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ensure that we survived our frequent seizures and apnea.

been alone, a class of one.

Like mine, Ellen’s body was a cruel imposter of a normal kid. She had gawky, wobbly arms and legs. Her head looked too big for her body and often drooped forward on her useless cervical spine. Her eyes drifted without method. Ellen seemed to have marginally more control over her body than I did. She did not require a tracheotomy to breath. And she could spit, which she did often, and make a sort of moaning, hissing sound. Her voice was girlish, though broken and distorted. I never knew what my own voice sounded like.

“She’s a brave girl, Tom,” the nurses would say to me after reviving Ellen. “Isn’t she a brave girl?”

Ellen and I were together through every type of bodily humiliation. Our classroom was the site of frequent clean-ups of urine, excrement, saliva, vomit, and sometimes blood. Nurses cleaned us, fed us, combed our hair, clipped our finger and toenails, discussed our bowel movements. We had our diapers changed in front of each other. We were dressed and undressed, poked, wiped, and sanitized. I saw her vagina many times, as much as it can be said that I “saw” anything, since my vision was random and unfocused. She saw my penis many times over the years. Ellen and I were also revived several times in front of each other. When I had a bronchial infection and my breathing tubes clogged with mucus, Ellen sat nearby while the nurses quickly suctioned out all the snot. When Ellen stopped breathing and her eyes rolled back in her head, which happened occasionally, I sat right there while the nurses administered CPR, medications, or if the fit was not drastic, a simple massage to bring her back to her version of normal. We survived many embarrassments and near-catastrophes together, and the trial of those years made me love Ellen more than I have ever loved anyone. When the nurses tried to feed Ellen her mushy asparagus paste and she spat it out, I thought it was funny. While my useless body stared dumbly at nothing I was cheering for her on the inside. Mentally, I encouraged her to rebel against her asparagus. Spit it out, Ellen. Spit it all out until they feed you something you like. When she had her seizures I worried that she would not survive. The greatest moments of my childhood were the relief I felt when Ellen started breathing again. She was my constant companion, my only friend. If she had died I would have 154

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I knew that she was. And I loved her, sympathized with her, and understood her, because I was certain, despite what I heard doctors, teachers, and other adults say my entire life, that Ellen was cognizant, just like me. I imagined she knew exactly what was going on, and was equally powerless to control her body enough to let anyone know the truth. In our mutual helplessness, we were bonded, connected on a level only we could understand. *** I saw Ellen every day at school, but not at home. I lived with my biological parents, and for this I was lucky, because I knew that at least somebody loved me. My mother kissed me goodnight, asked me questions, and generally spoke to me as if I were a normal person with the intelligence of about a seven year-old. I think this made her feel normal, but obviously she never waited for me to answer her questions. She would say, “Do you want me to leave your nightlight on, Tom?” then of course she would turn it on every night at bedtime. Often I heard my mother crying, sometimes alone, sometimes on the phone, especially when I was young. I knew she was crying about me because she would say so. My father was less adaptable. He helped my mother and our live-in nurses tend to my issues of maintenance, but he rarely spent any real time with me. “If it weren’t for you, Tom, I could open that furniture store,” he would sometimes say, grumbling under his breath while he changed my clothes or fiddled with my breathing machine. My father’s dream was to quit his corporate job to make and sell furniture, which he could have possibly done if we—I—were not dependent on his company’s generous health plan. Ellen’s home life was not so fortunate. She lived in foster homes, as her biological parents had not been able to afford her care. Her transition from each home to the next leaked out to me through Berkeley Fiction Review

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ensure that we survived our frequent seizures and apnea.

been alone, a class of one.

“She’s a brave girl, Tom,” the nurses would say to me after reviving Ellen. “Isn’t she a brave girl?”

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classroom dialogue, such as when a teacher would say, “Ellen’s new mommy is coming to pick her up today.” Our caretakers reacted to everything that happened to us with unbroken singsongy optimism. When you live among the abnormal, everything becomes normal. The nurses would discuss Ellen’s moving between foster homes as a matter of business: “Mrs. Gates couldn’t afford it anymore,” “Her home nurse moved to Georgia,” “The incentives are not what they used to be.” Then they would stroke Ellen’s hair, and smile, and show her a picture book about rabbits. I worried that Ellen would think nobody loved her, and that’s why she was moved from house to house. I promised myself that I would tell her I loved her one-day, if I ever could. *** High school, for Ellen and me, was a relatively seamless transition from elementary school. Some of our caretakers changed, and we were transported to a new building with a new room, but the lessons and the messes remained basically the same. I often wondered what would become of us once we aged out of our high school years. Would we leave school, and if so, what would be the purpose or end result of our education? I was not overly interested in colors, animals, and music, but most of my education during high school came from listening to conversations. People spoke as if I weren’t there. I learned that people formed bonded pairs and that these relationships could be alternately exciting, rewarding, frustrating, heart breaking. I also learned about sex and love. The concepts of sex and love came to me in pieces. Initially I heard phrases like “I love caramel frappucinos,” and “I love my boyfriend,” and wondered how the two ideas could be connected. I did not know what a caramel frappucino was, but I was intrigued by the concept of experiencing love for a person. I believed I loved Ellen, my frozen companion. When my mother kissed me and said she loved me, I felt excited. I wanted to transfer that excitement to Ellen. My understanding of sex took years to crystallize. I knew that something warm and exciting sometimes happened in my groin, but did not know what it meant. Like all of my bodily functions, 156

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these phenomena inevitably came to light in the classroom at school, a fresh wave of routine humiliations. For example, I would sometimes get erections when my diapers needed to be changed. “Oh my goodness, that’s quite a boner,” my nurse exclaimed as she changed my underwear. The other caretakers would shift uncomfortably, never sure what to do. “We should turn Ellen,” someone would suggest, although they did not always turn Ellen away, and eventually my public sexual maturation became just another normal part of the abnormal. *** During high school I began the first steps of unfreezing. The “special needs” class of Ellen and me had grown in number to six, although none of the others were frozen like us. Some of them could even talk or complete basic tasks on command. I envied these higher-functioning creatures, but pitied them too, assuming, as I assumed about Ellen, that they were fully cognizant beneath their oafish molds, and probably as eager as we were to escape their prisons. The new special needs class, unlike the one in elementary school, had a program whereby interested students from the normal student body could come into our classroom for an hour each week to interact with us abnormals. It was through this initiative that I met the first of my few true heroes in life, James Clark. James was sixteen or seventeen, a skinny, shaggy-haired kid with a pierced ear who always carried around a large backpack, though I never saw him open it. James was assigned to be my buddy, and he began his introduction by thoroughly interrogating my nurse about my capabilities. “Does he understand what’s going on?” James asked. “Will he understand what I say to him?” “I like to think he understands some things,” the nurse said. “He knows things like hot and cold, but people with Tom’s condition are generally not self-aware.” “But you don’t know that he doesn’t know what’s going on,” James persisted. My nurse went into further detail about the history and Berkeley Fiction Review

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specifications of my condition, but James remained stubbornly unconvinced.

“He did it!” he exclaimed. “You did it, Tom!” He waved madly at my nurse. “He knocked over the blocks!”

“Just talk to him like you would talk normally,” the nurse suggested.

James then explained his experiment to the nurse, who smiled with skepticism and told him that I had no control over my bodily functions, and that the knocking down of the blocks was simply a coincidence.

As soon as the nurse drifted away to help Ellen and the other students James Clark began his dedicated, single-handed effort to convince himself that I was a cognizant being. He started telling me jokes, and not stupid childish jokes, but real jokes, with dirty punch lines. He studied my face for a reaction. I wanted to laugh, of course, give him a sign that I enjoyed the jokes, but instead my head bobbed forward, my eyes glazed over, or I drooled on the tray attached to my wheelchair. James returned to my classroom each week, dropping his backpack next to me, helping the nurse feed me or read to me, then persisting in his exploration once we were alone. He showed me a picture of his girlfriend, held it in front of my face for a long time, and asked, “Hot, isn’t she?” As before, he stared hard at my face, watching for a reaction of agreement. As before, I agreed with him, wanted to tell him so, but the only response I could muster was a slight dropping of my left arm. Still, James Clark did not give up, and one day he came up with an idea to prove I was alive within my frozen shell. On my tray there were always three children’s building blocks with letters on them that, when stacked vertically, spelled TOM. James took one of my hands and rested it on my tray. “All right, Tom,” he said. “If you can understand what I’m saying to you now, knock over these blocks with your arm.” He pointed to the blocks, then sat back and watched. Feeling a combination of hopelessness and excitement, I sent a futile message to my arm to knock over the blocks. Nothing happened. James continued to watch and wait. Inside I was screaming, cursing my useless body. I have no idea how much time passed, but eventually the bell rang over the intercom, and all the students in our classroom grabbed their bags to leave. Slowly my hand inched toward the blocks and knocked them over. James Clark jumped out of his seat. 158

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“He does it all the time,” the nurse assured James. James Clark, God bless him, still did not give up. The following week he repeated the block experiment, and somehow, against all odds, I was eventually able to knock them over. The next week I knocked them over twice. The game became part of our routine, and each time James enthusiastically solicited the attention of anyone who would listen. The nurses and teachers generally thought it was cute, but not necessarily a sign of progress. James also believed, as I did, that Ellen too was a cognizant being. He quickly deciphered her spitting tendency, and thus developed a version of the block test for her. “Would you like some asparagus, Ellen?” James would tease, leaning close to my friend, and Ellen would respond every time by spitting. Again the teachers and nurses applauded this trick, characterizing James’ efforts as “cute,” or “very good.” But I felt even more deeply connected to Ellen now that someone had finally given us both the chance to escape our bonds together, if only minutely. As weeks became months and James Clark proved an ace at eliciting responses from Ellen and me, the skepticism among our caretakers finally cracked. One day toward the end of school one of my nurses, Rosemary, sat down next to me and placed my hand on my plastic tray. We were alone in the room and she stared at me with a look of soft curiosity I had never seen before. “If you understand what I’m saying, Tom,” she said quietly. “Knock over the blocks.” As before an eon seemed to pass while my mind screamed at my useless body, but eventually I was able to knock over the blocks. Rosemary’s expression changed again, becoming at once serious Berkeley Fiction Review

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specifications of my condition, but James remained stubbornly unconvinced.

“He did it!” he exclaimed. “You did it, Tom!” He waved madly at my nurse. “He knocked over the blocks!”

“Just talk to him like you would talk normally,” the nurse suggested.

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and deeply sympathetic, and I wonder if she was reliving our years together, all the feedings, changings, medications, nudity, all the conversations she had had with me hearing everything nearby, and realizing suddenly that she and I were much more intimately connected than she had ever imagined.

live forever after in excruciating pain. Although nobody knew it, the last moments before I was put under anesthesia for my first operation were the most terrifying of my life.

***

One day I woke up and realized I could breath. Air moved freely through my mouth and nose, and the hole in my throat had been sealed, the tubes removed. My throat tickled for a while, but eventually oxygen flowed normally. I lay in the hospital bed for a long time breathing in and out. After several operations I could now focus my eyes and control the muscles in my face, and when Dr. Brandaur came in I smiled.

James Clark had made a believer out of my nurse, Rosemary, and I came to learn gradually that believers were like dominoes, pushing each other forward. Rosemary stopped working with me after I “graduated” from high school at the age of twenty-two, but she did not forget me, nor the strange glimmer of hope I had shown when knocking over the blocks. As I learned years later, Rosemary contacted a specialist in the field of my condition, Dr. Adolph Brandaur, and suggested that I might be a strong candidate for a radical series of operations that Dr. Brandaur was trying to pioneer. Dr. Brandaur contacted my family, and I became a centerpiece of his career and subsequent rocket to medical fame. Like James Clark, Dr. Brandaur did not believe I was a catatonic vegetable person with no awareness or comprehension of my surroundings. He spoke to me normally and carefully, as if it was only a matter of time before I emerged from my shell, and when I did, I would remember everything anyone ever said to me. Dr. Brandaur spoke to my parents as if they were old friends. He explained the series of long-term operations and therapies he wished to perform. Cutting-edge breakthroughs had been made in the field of my condition. New information was emerging all the time. It might be possible, he told them, through years of hard work, and with incredible risk, to fix my nerves, stimulate my muscles, give the power of control back to my brain. Make me normal. My parents bristled. By the time Dr. Brandaur played his trump card, offering to cover the expenses entirely, my parents were eager to consent. Believing as they did that I had no idea what was going on anyway, they concluded, “It cannot possibly make Tom’s life any worse.” Overhearing parts of conversations, I was aware of what kinds of operations were going to be performed on me. It was possible to make my life worse. I could turn into a vegetable, or 160

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***

“We’re getting there, Tom,” the doctor said. It took years of physical therapy for me to build up the muscle mass to perform simple tasks like breathing and eating. Then I learned to talk, which was not as easy as I thought it would be. I knew thousands of words in my mind, but it was a long time before I could trust my lips and tongue and throat to pronounce them. Eventually I established an accent of my own, somewhere between that of a deaf person and a child, which I refined into some version of almost normal over long years of exhaustive practice. And I learned to move. I could walk, run, change pace. For fun, I learned how to handle a wheelchair, though I no longer needed one, and Dr. Brandaur teased me that for someone who had spent his life in a chair, I handled one like a rookie. Physical therapy continued throughout my twenties, but eventually I grew strong and there wasn’t much more the doctors could do for me. Physically, I was skinny and small, as before. After the operations and therapy I gained a tight layer of muscle, like a long-distance runner. My arms and legs were still gawky, but they worked well. I found a job delivering newspapers, proud that I could perform the simultaneous tasks of driving a car and pitching a newspaper out the window onto someone’s porch. Dr. Brandaur employed a plastic surgeon to “tweak” my face, as he put it, which had molded into a stiff, horsey sculpture over years of muscular atrophy. Looking in the mirror after the operations, I thought I looked normal with a set jaw, combed hair, and eyes that could now focus, though I had to wear glasses. Berkeley Fiction Review

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live forever after in excruciating pain. Although nobody knew it, the last moments before I was put under anesthesia for my first operation were the most terrifying of my life.

***

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My “completion” was celebrated during a lecture/gala at the university where Dr. Brandaur taught medicine. I was hailed as a miracle, a living unfrozen man. I was on the cover of magazines. My parents became reborn optimists. Without me to take care of, they almost did not know what to do with themselves, and eventually they pursued my father’s longtime ambition of making and selling furniture. I never specifically told anyone, including my family, that I had been cognizant the whole time I was frozen, never came screaming out during a moment of glorious self-righteousness and cried, “I heard everything!” My family and caretakers would probably have been embarrassed beyond recovery if the truth were known, so I kept quiet. Shortly after my twenty-ninth birthday, Dr. Brandaur met me in his office for a routine physical and, having found me to be in good shape and good health, announced that my rebirth would now leave the reconstructive phase and enter an indefinite period of monitoring and routine follow-up. “Congratulations, Tom,” he said, throwing up his hands as if the game was over and we had won. “You did it. You’re on your own. You’re both doing very well.” “Both?” I asked in my small, squeaky voice. “You and Ellen,” he said, and my heart rose suddenly to my throat. *** Of course I had not forgotten Ellen during my near-decade of physical transformation. In fact, though I had not seen her since school, I imagined her with me every step of the way, emerging from her own shell as I did. When I learned to breath, I thought of Ellen. When I learned to speak, I recited monologues to her when I was alone, encouraging her in her own progress. When I went for walks through my neighborhood, and later runs, I envisioned her training with me, growing stronger. But I never knew that after high school, all those years ago, Ellen, too, had been chosen for reconstruction, as another disciple of Dr. Brandaur. Thank you again, James Clark, for convincing one of our nurses that both Ellen 162

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and I were cognizant. Thank you, Rosemary, for recommending both of us to Dr. Brandaur, whose university, instead of balking at his request to fund two projects, had hedged their bets by granting the doctor the money to perform his miracles on both of us. The question of whether or not Ellen had been alive inside her body for all those years burned inside me, but once granted the freedom to discover this truth, I was again paralyzed. If she truly had been cognizant then she would remember our years of trials and humiliations, our seizures and resuscitations, our vomiting, defecating, changing, and wiping. She would remember all the times we sat together in class, drooling eternally, watching children’s television programming, while our caretakers casually compared our conditions and gossiped about their own lives. Together, Ellen and I might be the keepers of nearly two decades of secrets, patient prisoners finally freed, and I wondered if she would truly want to see me, and be submerged once again in the ice of our shared past. I wanted to see her. I had promised myself years ago I would one day tell her I loved her, and I decided it was worth the risk to find her, since no one on earth could possibly understand my life as she did. Ellen, I learned, had become an avid tennis player. I, too, had been encouraged by Dr. Brandaur to keep in shape through sports, and I chose swimming, basketball, and newspaper throwing. When I drove to a tennis club not far from my house to meet Ellen for the first time in seven years, I sat parked in my car for a long time. She had never contacted me either, and this bothered me, and I wondered if I should just drive away. Eventually I got out of the car and shuffled through the cold, rainy afternoon into the tennis club. I scanned the players on the various courts and found Ellen after a moment. My heart shuddered. Like me, she was skinny and small, and pale, but she looked healthy. She was half-crouched in a tennis player’s ready pose, and at first I thought she played sort of like a child, gently and cautiously. Then she stepped back to the baseline and plucked a ball out of her pocket, tossed it up in the air, and smashed it forward with surprising dexterity, charging the net after her serve to return the volley. I smiled as I watched her. She was not helpless or inept Berkeley Fiction Review

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on the court. She was good.

“Have you?” I asked.

Ellen spotted me while I was standing courtside, wondering how I should approach her. She walked off the court and paused mid-stride, staring at me. Finally her face broke into a smile.

Her grin quickly faded. “I haven’t,” she said, sipping her water nervously. “I’ve been touched in so many ways, in so many places. But never like that.”

Walking towards her my legs felt like Jell-O, but I knew this was not a relapse of my condition. I had read about people going “weak in the knees,” and though I feared pitching forward like a dolt, I felt cautiously normal. Ellen came to meet me and we stood only a few feet apart, studying each other while the hollow “thwok!” of tennis balls sounded all around us. Her face was round, as it had always been, and she wore glasses as before, but now her eyes were focused, like mine, and no longer glazed over. Her mouth, once encumbered by an overbite and gawky teeth, had smoothed out from cosmetic surgery. When she smiled, I saw that she had dimples.

“Would you like to try it?” I asked. “I mean, theoretically?”

“Hi, Tom,” she said in a quiet voice. *** Ellen and I had lunch at a café near her tennis club. For a long time we sat without speaking. When we did speak I noticed Ellen had the same childish accent I did. We spoke of the present, things we were doing now, sports we played for leisure. Of course I wanted to ask her the ultimate question, the one that had been nagging me for more than twenty years. But I did not ask, and she did not tell. “I went to Montana,” I told her. “Mountain climbing. I had some trouble breathing, but the views were spectacular.” She nodded, her eyes fixed on me. We spoke in low voices, leaning toward each other like conspirators. “Tom,” she said softly. “Have you tried sex?” “Not yet,” I replied. “But my parts all work.” She grinned at me. I remembered that she probably knew my parts all worked, had worked since long before the operations. She had seen me in a state of arousal. 164

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“I don’t think I would enjoy it,” she said. “My body is just so… medical. That’s all it is.” She opened her mouth quickly, as if to continue, but snapped it shut again, and she did not say much of anything for the rest of our meal. We agreed to meet again the following week, and soon our lunches became a regular event. We talked about the present and recent past, about subjects such as work, and food we had discovered to be delicious now that we could eat properly. The subject of sex did not resurface in conversation, nor did love. But I ached to tell Ellen I loved her, that I always had, that I had always envisioned us as secret companions. And as I thought of these things, I remembered James Clark, and an idea came to me. One day on our walk from the tennis club to the café, I reached out and took Ellen’s hand. She did not resist or pull away but squeezed me with her firm tennis player’s grip, and on we walked. I repeated this move every week thereafter, and over time her grip relaxed until her hand was soft and warm in mine and she even occasionally rubbed my skin minutely with her thumb. It was James Clark’s block experiment all over again, and the test came on the week when I did not take her hand. As I had hoped, she took mine instead, without any hesitation. From holding hands I progressed to kissing her on the cheek every time we parted from the café. As before, she met this gesture initially with humble silence and downcast eyes, but within a few weeks she started returning the kiss, her lips sometimes finding my cheek before mine could reach hers. And as the experiment continued I upped the stakes, kissing her fully on the mouth one day, and discovering that she did not resist, but actually reached her hand up to the back of my neck to hold me in place. When we parted she looked at me with an expression of cautious trust. Berkeley Fiction Review

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on the court. She was good.

“Have you?” I asked.

Ellen spotted me while I was standing courtside, wondering how I should approach her. She walked off the court and paused mid-stride, staring at me. Finally her face broke into a smile.

Her grin quickly faded. “I haven’t,” she said, sipping her water nervously. “I’ve been touched in so many ways, in so many places. But never like that.”

“Would you like to try it?” I asked. “I mean, theoretically?”

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“See you next week, Tom,” she said. On a summer evening too hot for tennis Ellen and I finally completed our glacial process of thawing out. We made love in my apartment with all the windows open and a gentle breeze stirring the air—silently at first, then loudly, using not only our bodies to reach each other but our voices as well, using as many functions as we could, abandoning all the constrictions we had known all our lives. When it was over we held each other, sweating and breathing. She kissed my tracheotomy scar and nestled her face into the crook of my neck. At long last I told her that I loved her, that I had always loved her, and I was on the verge of asking her the ultimate question, when she answered it for me. “When we were in school, I used to play a game with myself,” Ellen whispered. “When you and I were sitting in our wheelchairs, with our teachers and nurses feeding us and cleaning us and playing songs for us, I imagined that all of sudden we would both just stand up and cry ‘We fooled you!’ Then we would run out of the classroom together laughing. I would count down in my head, ‘Three, two, one!’ And then we were supposed to stand up. But since we could not stand up, I would spit instead, because that was all I could do. Spitting was supposed to be the signal for us to stand up and leave.” I held her and ran my fingers through her hair. So I had been right. We had been prisoners together, inwardly fighting to be free, loving each other across the impossible distance of paralysis. While I had rooted for her she had rooted for me, and if we could have spoken to each other with our minds, we could have truly shared everything. “I thought it was funny when you spat out your asparagus,” I said. “I didn’t hate asparagus,” Ellen said. “I just wanted someone to listen to me.” Arms and legs entwined, we kissed each other in the gentle breeze. “I think we should make love again,” Ellen said.

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crib at the foot of the cot. It was the same crib all of his brothers and sisters used. And it was the same crib little Hollis had slept in. Hollis’ daddy had carved the crib while his mama carried Hollis in her belly, chopping the wood himself, and using what little money he could scrape together to get the nails. But some of the nails were at weird angles. They were bent, broken and poking out, crooked like the teeth of a man who can’t afford to have them otherwise. Hollis believed his father used the heel of his left boot to pound them in. There never was a hammer to be found in the house, only the family knife.

I’ll be Back JAMES BELL

Hollis Brown was not a lucky man. Anyone ’round these parts will tell you as much. It seemed some kind of specter forever loomed over him and his family. His mother died soon after he was born. His sister died from lack of a mother. His brother died from lack of a sister. And his father, well, he let himself go before Hollis learned to walk. As far as luck was concerned, she never did like the Browns too much.

It was the fall of Hollis’ twenty-second year when the food got scarcer than ever. The dry breezes of the summer turned to cooler ones, as they always do, cutting through the holes in the wood shack quick and easy. They whistled past the pieces of iron Hollis had used to patch the holes, which only worked until the rain made the wood swell. Then it was time for more iron and more nails. “It’s getting awful breezy in here, Hollis.” “Mhmm.”

At twenty-two, Hollis made it much longer than any of his kin, all of whom, extended kin included, had passed on in some way or other. Hollis and his wife, Julie-Mae, had five kids. The last teat-sucker was only six months old. The rest of the children, the other four, were all the same. Two boys and two girls, but they were the same. It hurt Hollis to look at them. They never smiled. Thin thread and patches held their thin clothes together. Their feet were hard as stones, worn by long barefoot hours spent trampling twigs and thorns and burrs a ways out in the woods, and from running through fields to get what they could find. They were all skinny as hell, rib cages poking out and bellies big as juice jugs. And they all came about nine months after winter. You can’t blame Hollis and Julie-Mae. They had to keep the place warm somehow.

Being the God-fearing man he was, Hollis prayed and prayed for work, both for him and for his family. He even used the knife to whittle a cross that he hung on the wall. But as the days since his last job stacked up higher and higher, the weight of them began to crush what little faith he had left. The floorboards of his shack creaked and cracked like they were yelling at each other to figure which was the loudest, ready to snap any moment from too much pressure. He could feel them bend under the heels of the worn boots.

Hollis’ daddy had built the shack for two, but they packed the whole lot of them under that broken roof by the crossroads just the same. Hollis and Julie-Mae shared a cot on one wall. The two girls slept together on a small and rickety wooden bed across from the cot. The boys slept on the hard floor. The baby slept in a

Though Hollis never was a man of much intelligence, he was good with his hands. But, with the fall of the banks, the people in town weren’t too interested in that kind of man. Every farm was full up then. They’d all the hands they needed. What they wanted was a fancy man, a man in a fancy suit, a man with a

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“Think we’ll need some more iron soon?” “We’ll be okay, Julie-Mae… for now.”

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“Think we’ll need some more iron soon?” “We’ll be okay, Julie-Mae… for now.”

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bright pocket square and bifocals to ‘build-up’ the town, a man of means. Hollis, though he wouldn’t confess as much, needed just such a man himself.

bargained for work. Nearly forty days and forty nights of near starvation was going to end. The long ten miles each day was going to pay off. The soles of those boots were damn near gone.

“Maybe you ought to ask around, Hollis. There’s bound to be somebody somewhere that needs an extra soul.”

He came home at six the day he got the job. Just after the sunset, the black of night taking away the color of the day. JulieMae thought she saw a grin on his face, though no one never could tell if he was grimacing or grinning.

“Maybe…I’ll wait for now.” “Sure. You wait then.”

“Who’ll you be working for?”

In those early days of not working, Hollis spent most of his time on the tiny front porch, staring at the dry brown grass and the cracked halves of broken leaves in his yard, waiting for anyone to pass by with good news. He watched his children walk through the woods every day, not sure where they went or if they’d ever come back. He often hoped they wouldn’t. That maybe they’d found something, somewhere, better. But they returned hungry each day, to Hollis on the porch and to Julie-Mae nursing the new one, her breasts damn near down to her knees and her nipples redder and more swollen than two ripe tomatoes. Hollis didn’t sleep most nights. The silence was too loud. And when there was sound, it was too loud too. Sometimes, when Hollis watched Julie-Mae rock and feed the baby with the little her body could spare, he caught his baby’s eyes in the faint light of the moon. They were wilder than anything he’d ever seen. They followed him when he was trying to sleep, back and forth and louder than everything. After a month of waiting, and no one passing along the road with any news of a job, Hollis had taken to walking the five miles to town every single day. Each morning, Julie-Mae kissed him good-bye. And each night she rubbed his shoulders when he lay down on the cot, sweaty, dusty, and exhausted. It was in the dark, with the lightning of summer storms too late to be summer storms, when he often thought about taking down his father’s shotgun that hung on the wall next to the cross. But no matter how hard the circumstances, Hollis never did. He knew he didn’t have the money for the shells. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, just before the little food they’d rationed ran out, Hollis 170

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“This man named Mephitz I met on the road back home has a small quarry that needs mining. Says he’s going to build something once he gets everything he needs out of it.” “So you’ll be swinging an axe or something like that, bending over all day?” “Something like that.” “Okay.” “Is there a problem with my swinging an axe, Julie-Mae?” “I just worry about your back is all, Hollis. I thought maybe you’d find something a bit easier. The last time—” “Don’t put those thoughts in your head. I got enough trouble keeping them out of mine.” “Okay, Hollis.” “I got to worry about you and the family. My back don’t need any worry from you on top of it.” “Okay, Hollis.” Early the next morning Hollis set out for town, ten of his last twenty cents in his pocket. His steps felt lighter on that first morning walk. The trees were thick with fall. The coins, two old nickels, shook in his well-worn jeans with jingling promise. The boots of his father were finally beginning to take to the shape of his foot. Hollis Brown, walking those familiar five miles, was relieved for the first time in his life. He had a job. Berkeley Fiction Review

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bright pocket square and bifocals to ‘build-up’ the town, a man of means. Hollis, though he wouldn’t confess as much, needed just such a man himself.

bargained for work. Nearly forty days and forty nights of near starvation was going to end. The long ten miles each day was going to pay off. The soles of those boots were damn near gone.

“Maybe you ought to ask around, Hollis. There’s bound to be somebody somewhere that needs an extra soul.”

“Maybe…I’ll wait for now.” “Sure. You wait then.”

“Who’ll you be working for?”

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*** Mephitz was a small man. Hollis stood two, maybe three heads above him. While Hollis wore his patched Pendleton and battered boots, Mephitz wore a black suit and pointed shiny black shoes and carried a long black cane. The black flaps on the front of his coat looked like wings. And to Hollis, Mephitz’s fingers looked like plump sausages and his pink-red cheeks were fat slabs of ham. The man carried his girth like he’d been built with it. While he and Hollis talked to one another, Mephitz held the cane over the edge of the quarry like there was no chance of him dropping it. “You’re capable of clearing this here quarry with these young boys, Mr. Brown?”

“Mr. Brown, you trust me. Don’t you?” “Umm…yes. I believe I do, Mr. Mephitz.” “Well then you shall get your money once the quarry has been cleared, right?” “Right, sir… Of course.” Mephitz began to move away. Hollis thought of Julie-Mae and the baby. “But could I—could I get some sort of advance?”

“I am, Mr. Mephitz, sir.” “Alright then. It will be you, Mr. Tommy Johnson, who is standing just over yonder, and Mr. Robert Johnson—no relation— who should be here any damned minute now.”

Mephitz shuffled his feet as he came to a stop, the dirt near the quarry sliding this way and that under his weight. He turned back around again and made his way to Hollis. “Now, Mr. Brown, you haven’t done a lick of work. Tell me, why should I pay you a dime?”

“Yes, sir.” “Good. And you remember our deal, yes?” “Yes…I do, sir. You’ll have the half of my land we agreed upon when I’m paid.” As Mephitz tipped his weight to one side and began to turn, Hollis realized they hadn’t spoken about his payment. “Wait…excuse me, Mr. Mephitz, sir. Before you go...” “What is it, Mr. Brown?” “Mr. Mephitz, we never discussed my payment, sir.” Mephitz twisted his waxed mustache with his hotlink fingers. Then he took out his half spectacles and began to wipe at the glass with a shiny red cloth from his breast pocket. “How and when am I going to get paid, sir?” Hollis asked. Mephitz rocked back on his thick-heeled soles, putting all 172

his weight on them. Hollis looked down and saw a dark outline of himself in the big and broad black toes. He didn’t like the way it looked, but felt there wasn’t anywhere else for his eyes to go.

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“My family could really use it, sir… And… Because— because you can trust me. I’m willing to make—” “Another deal?” Mephitz exposed his shiny false teeth, all straight and eerie in that too-perfect sort of way. There was a fiery glint in his eye. “Yes, I’m willing to make another deal with you. Are you up for another deal, Mr. Brown? A pact? A secondary contract, if you will?” “Yes…yes, sir.” “Well, here’s what we’ll do, Mr. Brown: I’ll give you six dollars, yes? It’s good for two weeks work and half of your land. And, at the end of the month, if I deem your work satisfactory, I’ll give you the other six. Yes?” Hollis looked down into those black leather mirrors again and Mephitz pulled out a stack of bills that looked bigger than his Berkeley Fiction Review

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his weight on them. Hollis looked down and saw a dark outline of himself in the big and broad black toes. He didn’t like the way it looked, but felt there wasn’t anywhere else for his eyes to go.

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baby boy Jackson. As Hollis stuck out his hand, Mephitz pulled back. “But, if it is not satisfactory, then I am entitled to the other half of your land. Yes? Do we have a deal?” “Yes.” Mephitz pulled the six bills and put them in front of Hollis. He took the bills with fidgety fingers and shoved them deep in his pockets, careful not to rip through the struggling seams. “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Mephitz. I won’t let you down.” “See that you don’t, Mr. Brown. I won’t be back until the end of the month, but I’ll be with you in spirit. Others will be around to check on you. ” And so it began. Hollis went to work with Tommy and Robert in that pit across from the saloon. Both of them were good, hardworking boys. Tommy did most of the heavy lifting, pushing the wheelbarrow up and down the levels of the dirt ramp leading out of the pit. Robert did the digging. Hollis chipped away at the rocks inch by inch. At the close of the day, as they sat on the edge of the quarry looking down at everything below, Tommy pulled out his polished silver flask and Robert pulled out his guitar to play “Up Jumped the Devil.” Those two boys and Hollis cleared that flask every day from then on to the sound of Robert’s picking. On his walks home, trudging through the dark, Hollis had much time to do much thinking. He thought about how lucky he was to have work, no matter how he’d come by it. Especially when those folks he’d met in town and on the road didn’t have none to speak of. He thought about putting smiles on his children’s faces. He didn’t remember what their teeth looked like, or if they had any left at all. And he thought about Julie-Mae. They were going to make it a little while longer. They were going to eat better than they had in a long while. They were going to sleep sound with full, warm bellies. When the job was finished, they would worry about winter. *** 174

The days of work were long. Even with winter winding its way around the corner, the sun beat down hard during the day. The pick got heavier with each hour and Hollis’ grip on it got looser. The sweat burned off his back and disappeared soon as it hit the dirt. When Hollis returned every night, his children had buckets of cool stream water waiting for him. Julie-Mae poured it down his crooked spine and washed him, head to toe, with one of the last rags suited for washing. “How are you making out, Hollis?” “Fine.” The water ran down Hollis’ calves, winding its way through the few hairs his patched pants hadn’t worn away. “You can tell me, Hollis.” “I done told you, Julie-Mae. I’m fine.” Hollis’ face twisted up as Julie-Mae scrubbed the middle of his bulging back. “But Hollis, I can see it. It’s from your damned spine bending over. It ain’t no good for you, all this picking. And your shoulders are poking—” “This is the first time this family had more’n one meal in a day. And the first time any of those meals was any good. What is it you’d have me do, Julie-Mae? “I don’t know, Hollis. I just don’t… Maybe you can get Mr. Mephitz to give you a day off. Can you ask him, Hollis? Would you?” “Julie-Mae, are you out of your head? I have to do a bang up job on this quarry or I don’t get the rest of this money. I made…I made a deal. And besides, he ain’t around to ask. Ain’t no one but me and the boys down there in that blazing pit.” “Then why can’t you take off early, Hollis? If ain’t no one around—” “I can’t. It would be un-Christian. I just—”

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“But it would just be one day of rest, Hollis. If there’s one thing the Lord knows, it’s one day of rest. One day. Can’t you ask someone else?” “Alright, Julie-Mae. I’ll see what I can do.” “Okay, Hollis.” “Now, please just mind my shoulders. They been on fire all week.” The next morning, about two weeks into the job, Hollis rose, put on his boots, and made his way to town. His back really did hurt like hell. With the soles of the boots wearing thinner by the minute, his feet weren’t much better. And his legs had started feeling colder all over, even when the sun was right on them. When he got to the quarry, Tommy and Robert were already at it, Tommy lifting and pushing the wheelbarrow and Robert digging. Hollis walked to the edge, then stood watching them, rocking from left to right. One heel and then the other. “Say, fellas, would you mind if I maybe knocked off early once or twice? I don’t want to be no imposition or nothing, but my back has been acting real strange.” “Sure thing, Hollis. We know you work good and we don’t want you giving up the ghost on us.” “Yeah. Don’t think on it. Go’n ahead. We won’t begrudge it none.” “It really would help. I can’t thank you enough. I’m in y’alls debt. It’ll mean so much to my wife and me and—well, I’ll get to it now.” Hollis picked up his pick, the dead skin on his palms finding the dead wood, and got to swinging. At midday, he felt his back go. He lay down in the middle of the quarry and looked up at the sky. Two clouds, thick and grey, were making their way over to cover up the sun. Normally, Hollis would’ve liked the shade. But they looked different. Something about them wasn’t right. They didn’t look so much like clouds to him. They looked a lot like animals, like animals facing off for some strange reason, 176

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one with horns and the other one without them. Two big sons of bitches chomping at the bit to have something or someone in the middle. As the month wore on, Tommy and Robert continued to let Hollis take off early. He left them with a little bit more work, but it weren’t nothing those boys couldn’t handle. The rest did Hollis good. And with each day, the pain started to lessen, if only the tiniest bit. But unfortunately for Hollis, Mephitz, like he said he did, had his people in town. Those folks checked on those boys six times a day and they made certain Mephitz knew. Not that any of them could’ve known it. No, to those three workingmen, the folks above ground were the folks above ground. Hollis and the boys only passed by them when they made it up the levels of the zigzagging dirt ramp. *** When the month was up, Tommy, Robert, and Hollis had the quarry cleared. It really was a thing of beauty. Not a rock, not even a twig in the place. A vacant, spotless hole in the earth, just waiting for somebody to fill it. On the day agreed upon, the last day of work, Mephitz came to meet the boys. He walked his way over, clipping and clopping. Slow. Like he knew he was going to meet you one way or the other. “Mr. Johnson, Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Brown. I have three envelopes here. You’ll find your payment inside. If you should require any work after the winter, once the snow begins to melt and the weather becomes more tolerable, come back into town. Your names will be enough.” “Thank you, Mr. Mephitz.” “Yes, Mr. Mephitz, thank you.” “Thank—” When Hollis looked in his envelope, he didn’t find the six dollars he and Mephitz had agreed upon. He found only two Berkeley Fiction Review

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quarters, shining for no reason at all. Mephitz started to make his way over to the saloon just across the way from the quarry, twisting and twirling his cane like he was proud of the work he hadn’t done. Hollis ran after him, rocking, as his heels hit the dirt. “Mr. Mephitz…Mr. Mephitz. Wait, sir.” Mephitz turned and smiled at Hollis. Big veins poked out on either side of his shiny pinkish head.

every day for the last two weeks. Therefore, you’ve received your payment for two full weeks of work, which I gave you as an advance, and this smaller portion of your wage for a smaller portion of your work. I’d say it’s fair Mr. Brown, wouldn’t you?” “I asked Tommy and Robert. They didn’t see no harm in it. It was my back. You see, you weren’t here to—” “I’ve been here the whole time, Mr. Brown. In my own way.” “But—”

“Yes, Mr. Brown. What is it?” “Mr. Mephitz. I don’t mean to—I mean—What I mean to say is—” “Out with it, Mr. Brown.” “I’m sure whoever you told to get the money made some sort of mistake, sir. It seems I only have fifty cents in my envelope.” “That’s no mistake, Mr. Brown.”

“Mr. Brown, you breached our contract. You’re lucky I’ve given you any money at all. Now, if you still wish to work for me once the winter comes to a close, let me know when I come for your land. And if not, you know where to find me. Desperate men always do.” Hollis watched as Mephitz hopped into the saloon to get himself a drink, his feet coming off the ground. He looked down at the coins in his hand. It wasn’t but one second before he was in and out of the general store and running the five miles back home like something had possessed him.

“What do you mean, sir? We agreed on six dollars.” “Yes. This is true, Mr. Brown. But we also agreed that you would only receive those six dollars if you’d done a satisfactory job.” “The quarry is clean, sir.” “Yes, Mr. Brown, the quarry is clean.” “Then why don’t I have all my money?” “Because you didn’t do your share, Mr. Brown. Your work was not satisfactory. You’ve fallen short. And so I’ve kept the majority of your payment for myself. My work, unlike yours, has been satisfactory.”

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*** After the first mile, Hollis felt his boots giving out on him. What was left of either sole wasn’t working anymore. He ripped them off and chucked them in the woods. He didn’t need them in this life. Hollis could feel the pain in his back spreading. His feet were aching from the stones and burrs and thorns on the road. The wind was against him, but he kept running. His children were on the front porch when Hollis came tumbling along like a tornado, kicking up so much dust that you could hardly see the man if you weren’t looking for him. He flew past his children’s little craning heads and went to the corner to his father’s shotgun on the wall.

“How do you mean?”

“Hollis! Hollis, what are you doing?”

“Well, Mr. Brown, I know that you’ve been leaving early

The wooden cross fell to the dirt and Hollis loaded one

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“How do you mean?”

“Hollis! Hollis, what are you doing?”

“Well, Mr. Brown, I know that you’ve been leaving early

The wooden cross fell to the dirt and Hollis loaded one

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Jessica Zheng

round from the general store in the chamber and threw seven more down on the table. He looked at Julie-Mae with her hands on her belly, the cotton of her dress stretching tight across it. “I’ll be back.” With the shotgun in his hands, he took off faster than he’d come in. When Hollis blew back into town, the people still in the streets scurried away like bugs. He made straight for the saloon, slowing down a little and walking more upright than ever before, now that he’d rid himself of those damned boots. His feet were ripped red and black. His face was twisted in that in between way no one ever knew which way to take. From a few yards away, he saw the saloon doors swing open. “Thank you. I’ve had a hell of a time. Best hooch this side of the Mississippi. I’ll be around this way again. Always am.” Mephitz stumbled out of the saloon and into the street. He looked toward his cleared quarry across the road and didn’t see Hollis coming on his right. When he did look in Hollis’ direction, Mephitz didn’t waste no time. He ran right for the quarry. Folks in town still don’t know why he ran right for a big hole. Some think he might’ve thought Hollis couldn’t get him in there. Others think he was just running to run. And some folks even say they heard Mephitz laughing all the way there, like a schoolgirl who pulled one over on a teacher. But if you got any sense about you, you’d know why Mephitz done what he did. He knew Hollis was going to put him in that hole. Some say that was the end of all that, but I’ve heard it told that later that night, after Hollis had made his way back home in the dark, that Mrs. Mephitz’s car—for there was a Mrs. Mephitz—was winding its way to town, her in the back and in labor. While the driver stopped at the crossroad, she heard seven blasts. Some folks say Mrs. Mephitz would have stopped to help if she could. Others don’t. But I’ve never heard any man pass judgment on her. It’s hard to say what’s right when life is coming.

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logging road called Buzzard Lagoon. The three of us sat in the back of the bus, where the driver couldn’t see us. Ever since Toni was caught selling dime bags to a couple of sixth graders, the bus driver had had it in for us. But Toni, he didn’t care. He was crouched down in the backseat taking fat rips out of a peace pipe he’d made in woodshop earlier that day and was blowing the smoke out the back window. We smoked so much weed back then, it’s a miracle I can remember anything at all.

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“God, I like the way those Indians think,” Toni said. “I think I might’ve been one in my past life.” With a pencil, JB punched a hole in the seat in front of us and was showing me how to properly fingerbang a chick.

My good friend Toni brought a gun to school on Wednesday, said it was his dad’s. He showed it to me and JB during lunch, in the bathroom behind the cafeteria. It was much heavier than I expected.

“See what you got to do,” JB said, “is you take your finger, and you stick it in like this.” He jabbed and poked at the hole with his middle finger and slid it in and out, and in and out, and in and out, again.

“This, my friends,” Toni said, “is what you call a nine millimeter.” He thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger, and the gun made a click sound.

“See,” he said. “Like this.” “JB, would you please shut the hell up?” Toni said, coughing up smoke. “You don’t know shit about that. No chick in their right mind would ever let you finger fuck them.”

“Pretty cool, huh?”

JB defended himself, “I’ve fingered tons of chicks before.”

Toni said his dad had just bought a whole bunch of guns, just like this one and bigger ones too, that were now hidden in the wall in his basement. JB thought Toni was full of shit, but Toni said he’d show us the rest of them on Friday, after school got out.

JB flipped him off. “I’m not fat,” he said. “Don’t call me

***

fat.”

My mom had warned me many times about hanging around kids like Toni, said he’d only get me into trouble. But both she and my dad were at work all day, which meant there was no one to look out for me, no one to tell me what to do. Friday after school, me and JB and Toni took the bus to Toni’s house in Corralitos, way out in the boonies. Toni’s dad owned this house out there, deep in the foothills, up the old 182

“Bullshit,” Toni said. “You’re a liar and you’re fat. That makes you a fat ass liar. The only thing you’ve fingered is your fat fuck asshole.

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Then Toni took the pistol out of his backpack and pointed it right at JB. “And what are you going to do about it, fat ass?” he said and he pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. *** The bus dumped us off at the bottom of the logging road, and we hiked the two miles up to Buzzard Lagoon. Toni’s house Berkeley Fiction Review

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Buzzard Lagoon REID MARUYAMA

My good friend Toni brought a gun to school on Wednesday, said it was his dad’s. He showed it to me and JB during lunch, in the bathroom behind the cafeteria. It was much heavier than I expected.

“This, my friends,” Toni said, “is what you call a nine millimeter.” He thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger, and the gun made a click sound.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

JB defended himself, “I’ve fingered tons of chicks before.”

JB flipped him off. “I’m not fat,” he said. “Don’t call me

***

fat.”

“Bullshit,” Toni said. “You’re a liar and you’re fat. That makes you a fat ass liar. The only thing you’ve fingered is your fat fuck asshole.

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was a small cabin-like thing set deep in a clearing, with a satellite dish and a woodshed outside and an old Chevy truck with bullet holes painted all over the passenger side door. There were overturned lawn chairs and empty beer cans scattered across the gravel driveway, a broken TV left in the weeds. Toni’s dad was out in the front yard, bathed in sunlight. He had a giant meat cleaver in his hand. He stood at the woodblock, a pile of headless iguana corpses laying at his feet. His face was covered in flecks of blood. He was getting ready to make his next batch of jerky. No joke: every few months, Toni’s dad mail-ordered a couple dozen iguanas from Brazil or some other place like that and they came in wood crates, and for a few weeks he kept them stored in the woodshed. Then he butchered them and skinned them and cut them up into bits and pieces. They screamed, and their tails still wriggled even after their heads were cut off. Toni’s dad waved the meat cleaver at us when he saw us coming up the driveway. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, leaving a streak of blood across his face, like Indian war paint. He was a tall, scary-looking man with a tattoo of a bear having sex with a naked woman on his forearm, which Toni said he got in Vietnam. “Hey, boys,” he yelled. “You got to come check this out. This one was having babies.” *** Buzzard Lagoon—it was a weird place out there, no other houses for miles around, just acres of old grove redwoods, creeks and meadows, deep ravines the size of craters. Toni’s dad told us the place used to be a sacred Indian burial ground, but now it was haunted by evil demons and spirits. Some people in town claimed to have seen UFOs out there, and one man even said he once saw Sasquatch.

duct tape. We smoked some weed from Toni’s dad’s secret stash and were watching one of his porn videos. Ever since Toni’s mom died a few years ago from a brain tumor the size of a fist, the man had been crazy for these movies, started ordering them wholesale from places like Tijuana and Thailand. Now he had the biggest collection I’d ever seen, boxes and boxes of them piled high in the basement. On his nights off, he liked to stay up late with us explaining which positions were which. Some of them were real raunchy movies. Some of them were in foreign languages. This one was in Chinese. “God, I love Asian girls,” JB said, then laughed. Toni flicked a bottle cap at him. “Shut up, fat ass,” he said. “I’m trying to watch this here.” Sometimes I felt sorry for JB, he couldn’t help being so fat. He suffered from this rare type of disease with his glands, which made him fat, I mean real fat, and Toni was always making fun of him for it. He was sitting on the floor watching the porno movie with one hand crammed down his pants and the other hand picking at a big, ugly scab on his forehead. Just last week when we’d set off a firecracker in Toni’s backyard, JB was standing too close and got hit in the head with a rock. There was blood everywhere and Toni, who said he knew a little about Indian medicine, shoved some dirt and leaves into the gash to stop the bleeding. Now the cut looked infected, full of green puss. “Man,” JB said. “I would totally eat a hot pocket out of that chick’s ass.” “JB,” Toni said. “You would eat anything out of anyone’s ass.” “Yeah,” JB said. “Like I did with your mom last night.”

*** We were sitting in Toni’s living room, waiting for Toni’s dad to go to work so Toni could show us the guns. The house smelled of mildew and rot, the floor was covered in cigarette butts and bottle caps, the windows were patched with strips of 184

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Toni glared at JB, gave him a look like he was about to leap across the floor and strangle him to death. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he actually did—stranger things have happened before. I never asked Toni about his mom because I knew it made him uncomfortable. I understood that kind of thing, I guess. He Berkeley Fiction Review

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just didn’t want to talk about it, and I made sure never to bring it up.

“You can make a real mean stew out of these,” he informed me.

Finally Toni turned to JB and said, “Say that again and I’ll fucking waste you.” *** Later, Toni’s dad came inside with a string of iguanas in a twisted coil of wire, dangling by their tails. He threw them on the coffee table, and they fell with a blapblapblap, then he sat down next to me on the couch. His hands were covered in blood, and the blood ran down over the sleeve of his shirt. I could see the tattoo pulsing on the skin of his forearm. He laid out his knives on the table. There were four of them in total: a swaybacked skinning knife, a scalpel, a drop-point caper, and a ten-inch hunting knife. The rolled edge of the Bowie, he told me, was the best tool for fleshing out a skin without tearing it. “Hey, you kids want to help me skin these little bastards?” he asked. “Before I go off to work?” “Dad, we’re kind of busy here,” Toni said. “Find someone else to do your bitch work.” If it were me that said that to my dad, the worst that would’ve happened was I’d get sent to my room. But Toni’s dad was different. He liked to give Toni a real beating. He took him outside by the neck and covered his entire body with a belt. I’d seen the bruises before and they were pretty gruesome, but I never said anything to anyone. When they came back inside, they sat down on the couch, as if nothing had happened. Toni’s dad took out his hunting knife, then went about skinning the iguanas. There was an old 80’s action movie on the TV now—a Stallone or a Schwarzenegger movie, something like that. Toni’s dad really loved these movies, couldn’t get enough of them. He lay back on the couch and lit a cigarette and still managed to continue skinning the iguanas. The feet and the tails he threw in a cardboard box, along with the heads, and the pelts he neatly stacked on the floor.

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*** Since Toni’s dad worked nights at the stockyard in town, we pretty much owned the place until six in the morning. It was almost midnight when we heard his truck start up and sputter down the logging road. The weed we’d been smoking, the malt liquor we’d been drinking was making me feel for once dangerous and brave, though deep down I knew I was a coward, nothing more than that. Toni kicked JB in the stomach and told him to get his fat ass up, and we followed him down into the basement. The basement was cold and dark, lit by a single bulb; the floor was covered in several puddles of muddy water. There was a piece of cardboard duct-taped to the wall. Toni ripped it off and pulled out a big sleeping bag full of guns and he began taking them out one by one and laying them out on the floor. The barrels were shiny and glinted blue in the light. “See,” Toni said. “What did I tell you?” There must’ve been at least twenty or thirty guns, all kinds of them too: pistols, revolvers, rifles, shotguns. Most of them were unregistered, Toni said, because his dad didn’t trust the government. He bought them for real cheap at gun shows in Salinas and Watsonville. JB grabbed at them like a child after a toy and started digging through the bag, picking out one gun, then another, then another. He picked up a shotgun and started pointing it around the room. “I feel like Rambo,” he said. “You look more like a fat kid with a gun,” Toni said. “Screw you,” JB said, and aimed the shotgun right at Toni’s head. “Don’t call me fat.” From the big pile of guns, I picked out some kind of pistol—a little .22 revolver, I think—and I put it in my waistband. I looked at myself in the mirror with it, and I had to admit, I looked Berkeley Fiction Review

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just didn’t want to talk about it, and I made sure never to bring it up.

“You can make a real mean stew out of these,” he informed me.

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pretty cool, though it wasn’t as if I would’ve actually pulled the trigger, I was too much of a coward.

“No thanks,” JB said. “I don’t really like fences.” “Come on, you fat piece of shit. The fence isn’t going to

“Let’s go hunting for raccoons,” JB said. “Or a mountain lion. Yeah, a mountain lion. Let’s kill a fucking mountain lion.” *** We started off through the woods, in the dark. We were pretty wasted that night, stoned, drunk off malt liquor and some of Toni’s dad’s homemade whiskey we found underneath the sink. Toni led the way, I carried the revolver in my waistband, and JB had the shotgun hefted up on his shoulder. He was whistling to the tune of “Come all ye Faithful.” “Shut up,” Toni said. JB shut up. Several bats flew overhead, hunting for moths. The wind in the trees made a sound like whispering voices. The only other sound was the sound of our feet crunching over leaves and branches. Then we heard a small animal scurry away in the bushes. “Raccoon! Raccoon!” JB screamed, and he went running after it through the woods, waving the shotgun around in the air. For a second it was dead silent. But then we heard the sound of gunshots, one after another after another.

break.” “I warned you about calling me fat,” JB said. “I don’t like being called fat.” “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it standing way the fuck over there? Fat ass?” Toni nudged me on the shoulder. “You’re really asking for it,” JB said, and he started climbing over the fence. But when he got to the top and swung his leg over, one of the posts broke and the fence tumbled over and JB hit the ground with a thud, face first. Toni started laughing and slapping his knees, pointing at JB lying on the ground. Then I started laughing too, though I didn’t mean to. He looked helpless lying there on the ground. He struggled to push himself up. His shirt was covered in dirt and leaves. He brushed himself off. “Stop laughing,” he said. “Holy shit, that was great,” Toni said. “If only you could’ve seen your face, JB. Hilarious.”

*** After that, we got lost. We walked through the woods for what felt like hours. I had no clue where we were or where we were going. Pretty soon we came to a hill and we stumbled softly down it and into an open field. All around were lightning bugs, the crickets were chirping loudly, and the grass was bending in the wind. Toni and I climbed over the wooden fence at the edge of the clearing, and we waited for JB on the other side. “You guys go on ahead,” JB said. “I’ll catch up.” He was out of breath, panting loudly. “Come on, JB,” Toni said. “Just climb over. Don’t be such a

“Stop laughing. I mean it, Toni.” But Toni couldn’t stop laughing. “Damn JB, you’re so fucking fat. My god, Jesus Christ. Wow. Oh boy.” “I told you to shut up about that,” JB said. “I’m not fat, got it? I’m not fucking fat,” and he raised the shotgun and aimed it right at Toni’s head. The gunshot tore through the air and echoed off into the hills. You could almost see the sound waves, the blue-gray smoke curling up from Toni’s pistol.

pussy.” JB staggered backwards, his knees buckled, and he fell to 188

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pretty cool, though it wasn’t as if I would’ve actually pulled the trigger, I was too much of a coward.

“No thanks,” JB said. “I don’t really like fences.” “Come on, you fat piece of shit. The fence isn’t going to

pussy.” JB staggered backwards, his knees buckled, and he fell to 188

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the ground. He folded his hands over his stomach.

“Everywhere,” JB cried. “It hurts everywhere.”

“Fuck,” he said. “You shot me. What the fuck?” His hands were covered in blood and the blood expanded quickly across his shirt. “I can’t believe you shot me,” he said and he lay down on his back and stared up at the sky. Toni and I stopped laughing. We ran over to where JB was lying on the ground and knelt down beside him.

“Hold on. Don’t move.” Toni got a handful of dirt and leaves and started jamming it into the bullet hole in JB’s stomach and JB screamed out in pain. “The Ohlone Indians used to do this, you know, to heal their wounded when the white man first came with their guns and started blowing holes in everyone. It might hurt now, but trust me, this will save your life.”

“Holy shit,” I said. “I can’t believe that just happened,” Toni said. The wound in JB’s belly was welling slowly with blood. Toni poked his finger into the bullet hole and JB let out a scream.

Toni and I started carrying JB back to the house, but he was too heavy. “Goddamn, JB. Why you got to be so fat?” ***

“Fuck, that’s nasty,” Toni said. “But look on the bright side, JB. At least you have a new hole to fingerbang. I mean, one that’s not your asshole.” He turned to me and winked. JB grunted like he had just been struck in the stomach with a club.

Finally we got back to Toni’s house dragging JB by the legs and leaving behind a thin trail of blood. It was still dark out. All the lights in the house were turned off. I didn’t know what time it was, but Toni’s dad was already back from work, his truck parked in the gravel driveway. We got JB sitting up in the cab of the truck, and we threw the shotgun into the backseat.

“What does it feel like being shot, JB?” Toni asked. “Try not to bleed all over my dad’s truck,” Toni said. Then he turned to me, “Do you know how to drive?”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh. It kind of hurts.” “I don’t doubt it.”

“No,” I said.

“Shouldn’t we call an ambulance or something?” I asked.

“Yeah, me neither.”

“An ambulance? Look around. Does it look like an ambulance is going to find us way out here?” Toni said. “I’m going to die, I know it,” JB said. He was crying now. Tears were sliding down his fat cheeks. “I know it. I’m dying. My God, I’m dying.” “Calm down,” Toni said. “You’re not going to die. All your fat probably stopped the bullet. Show me, where does it hurt?” 190

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Toni got into the driver’s seat, and I got in next to JB. It was the kind of truck you didn’t need a key to start. Toni started the truck and backed up out of the driveway and we sped off down the road. It was a long way back into town, about a thirtyminute drive, and the road was bumpy and narrow, and I wasn’t sure if we were going to make it. JB had started shivering. “God, it’s so cold,” he said. “Sorry,” Toni said. “Heater’s broken.” Berkeley Fiction Review

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the ground. He folded his hands over his stomach.

“Everywhere,” JB cried. “It hurts everywhere.”

Toni and I started carrying JB back to the house, but he was too heavy. “Goddamn, JB. Why you got to be so fat?” ***

“What does it feel like being shot, JB?” Toni asked. “Try not to bleed all over my dad’s truck,” Toni said. Then he turned to me, “Do you know how to drive?”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh. It kind of hurts.” “I don’t doubt it.”

“No,” I said.

“Shouldn’t we call an ambulance or something?” I asked.

“Yeah, me neither.”

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The truck rattled on the dirt road, the headlights cut straight through the dark. The stars in the sky looked like dancing knives and the moon disappeared behind a cloud. As he drove, Toni fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station, but there was only static, so he turned it off. JB was pale and sick looking, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

I touched my fingers to JB’s wrist, then I pressed them on his throat, but there was nothing. I couldn’t feel a thing. He wasn’t crying anymore, wasn’t shivering. “Well?” “I can’t tell.”

“What are you going to tell them when we get to the hospital?” Toni asked. “What happened,” JB said. “You got to promise to tell them it was an accident, okay?” “Okay.”

Toni hit the brakes and the truck skidded to the side of the road. He pushed me aside and tore off the rearview mirror and held it beneath JB’s nose, to make sure he was still breathing. Nothing. Then Toni turned and looked at me with a face more frightened than anything I had ever seen before.

“Promise?”

“What?” I said. “What happened? Is he all right?”

“Yeah,” JB said, and he let out a deep painful groan.

“I think—I think he’s dead.”

We were making pretty good time and for a second I thought we were going to make it. But then JB started crying and coughing up blood. He kept saying how he didn’t want to die yet, how he was still very young, how there was still so much he hadn’t done yet. “I’ve never fingered a chick before,” he sobbed. “Never even kissed one.” The tears were pouring out of his eyes now and snot was dripping down his chin. “I used to want to be a veterinarian,” he said. “You know, when I was I kid. How crazy is that? Me, a veterinarian? Jesus Christ. Oh man, it hurts.” He was coughing and spitting out blood, his face was pale and scared. “But now,” he said, “now none of that’ll ever happen.” Then he went silent. “How’s he doing?” Toni said. “I don’t know,” I said. “Well, is he still alive? Take his pulse. The key isn’t to let him fall asleep.” 192

“Shit, do I always have to do everything?”

Reid Maruyama

“What? What do you mean he’s dead? He can’t be dead. No. He can’t be dead.” My voice felt like it was screaming. I started shaking JB’s shoulders, but no matter how hard I shook he wouldn’t wake up. For a moment there was only silence and the sound of the engine throbbing. “Now what do we do?” I asked. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. Does it look like I’ve done this before?” Toni said. He had the steering wheel clenched in his fists so tight I could see his knucklebones. JB sat in between us, his shirt completely soaked through with blood and his pants soiled with piss and shit. The truck smelled awful. Toni turned off the engine, and we sat there, staring out the window at the headlights that lit up the dirt road. We listened to the crickets chirp. Neither of us said a word. What was there to say? Finally Toni said, “I didn’t mean to kill him. I swear, it wasn’t my fault. He was going to shoot me.” Berkeley Fiction Review

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“What are you going to tell them when we get to the hospital?” Toni asked. “What happened,” JB said. “You got to promise to tell them it was an accident, okay?” “Okay.”

“Promise?”

“What?” I said. “What happened? Is he all right?”

“Yeah,” JB said, and he let out a deep painful groan.

“I think—I think he’s dead.”

“Shit, do I always have to do everything?”

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I didn’t say anything. “You won’t say anything, will you?” he pleaded. “You’ll tell them it was an accident, right?” “Yeah,” I said, “sure.” And I knew then I wasn’t ever going to rat on Toni because he would’ve done the same for me. Because we were friends. I don’t know how long we sat there in the truck before we decided to do anything. Cold air was coming in through the window, but I wasn’t cold, I couldn’t feel a thing. Gigantic redwoods loomed over us, a creek rushed down a hill nearby. I could feel the barrel of the revolver rubbing up against my thigh like a cold finger. I’d never been so scared in my life. What was happening to me? “Thanks,” Toni said. “I owe you one.”

Notes on Contributors

Z.Z. Boone lives in Connecticut with novelist Tricia Bauer and their daughter, Lia. His fiction has appeared or is upcoming in New Ohio Review, 2 Bridges, The Roanoke Review, The Adroit Journal, The Potomac Review, and other terrific places. David Calbert is a writer living in California. He is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College where he studied writing and literature. This is his first published piece of fiction. Louie Centanni will earn his MFA from San Diego State University this Spring 2014. He currently teaches two classes there focusing on the Rhetoric of Satire. He enjoys emotional background music from ‘90s sitcoms, awkward hugs to end first dates, and the hypnotic tonal vibrations of Jean-Luc Picard’s voice. He has self-published one novel, A Couple of Unorthodox Love Affairs (available on Amazon), and has had stories featured in Chicago Literati, and East Coast Literary Review. He has the rudimentary ability to construct simple websites (see: www.louiecentanni.com). He currently lives in San Diego, CA. Donna Choi is a designer and illustrator based in Brooklyn, New York. With inspiration drawn from the Internet and technology, Donna distorts and re-imagines pop narratives into playfully sharp statements and characters. Her latest project explores love in the digital era. Her work can be viewed at yourmodernromance.com and donnachoi.com. Lauren Cooper is a second year Comparative Literature major and

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Spanish and History minor at UC Berkeley. She loves doodling her way through life, and has often been caught drawing portraits during class. During her free time, she enjoys reading all kinds of literature, watching old movies, and traveling. Lauren is also an editor on the Berkeley Fiction Review. R.M. Cooper’s fiction and nonfiction has recently appeared in university and independent presses including Fugue, Portland Review, Noctua Review, and Paper Nautilus, among others. Cooper lives in central Iowa and is the managing editor of Sequestrum. Adam Crystal has been drawing from a very young age, and recently graduated from Colorado State University with a bachelor’s degree in graphic design. He has always enjoyed cartooning and creating simple yet unique images, which led him to pursue a career in design. Madison Crystal is an undergrad at the University of California, Berkeley, pursuing a major in English with a Creative Writing minor. She currently works as an editor at University of California Press and is the author of “Grownup for a Day,” published in Berkeley Fiction Review’s Issue 33 as well as over a dozen incomplete stories which she really does intend to finish… someday. Jacob Gerstel lives in California and discovered his love for writing while he was in high school. Although he usually focuses on darker short stories, he also writes about anything else that catches his fancy (including the occasional poem). When he isn’t reading or writing, he’s either learning about history, arguing about politics, or practicing improvisational comedy. His work has been published in The Horror Zine, Revolt Daily, Blue Ridge Literary Prose, and the Horrors of History anthology. He’s twenty-one and is currently attending the University of California Berkeley, majoring in English and History. He can be contacted by email at gersteljacob@yahoo.com. C.B. Heinemann has been performing, recording and touring with rock and Irish music groups for nearly twenty years. His short stories have appeared in Florida English, Rathalla Review, Howl, Ascent, Lowestoft Chronicles, Outside In Literary Journal, Storyteller, One Million Stories, Whistling Fire, Danse Macabre, Battered Suitcase, Fate, The Washington Post, Boston Globe, Phila196

Notes on Contributors

delphia Inquirer, Cool Traveler, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and Car & Travel. His stories have been featured in anthologies published by Florida English, One Million Stories, and Whereabouts. Wendy Herlich is a performer and writer of plays and fiction who lives in New York City. Her most recent play, Another Evening of Awkward Romance, which she also appeared in, was selected for publication by Indie Theater Now to be included in their FringeNYC 2013 collection. Her short fiction has been published by TheLaurel Review. James Huntley’s series “Fado Fables” specializes in a variety of media, including traditional, and digital means. Working with mixed media, Huntley has lived abroad and in the United States. His work has been influenced by the places he has seen and the people he has met. In each piece he makes, he attempts to express a universal sense of longing. C.E. Hyun’s stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Ideomancer, The Good Men Project, decomP, and Mirror Dance. This is her first art publication. She currently lives in Orange County, California and at cehyun.com Kate Irwin is a student at the University of California, Berkeley, majoring in both English Literature and Film and minoring in Creative Writing. In 2011, she won the Canadian National Writing Contest and the Peachland Short Story Contest for her short fiction. Her poetry has also been published in an anthology with Silver Bow Publishing. Currently, Kate is the Lead Literature Critic for the Daily Californian and is in the process of editing her first novel. Lisa M. Jenkins is a student of English and Political Science at UC Berkeley. She writes and takes photographs in her free time. Michelle Kicherer is an Oakland-based writer. Her website, BananaPitch.com, is an illustrated collection of stories, many of which are based around oddball title suggestions from the public. Have a pitch? Email michelle@bananapitch.com. Miranda King studies English and Conservation and Resource Studies at UC Berkeley. She works for various publications. Berkeley Fiction Review

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Sam Lubicz is a collage artist/graphic illustrator/animator living in Los Angeles. His commercial and personal work has been published in various magazines and books including: Dossier Journal, Modern Painters, The Huffington Post, Elephant (UK), The Baffler, hDL Magazine (Israel), “Collage” Monsa (Spain), Axis Unchained, and others. He has created album artwork for artists such as LOL Boys, Schwarz, DJ Baglady, and Nine:Fifteen. Adam Matson graduated from Ithaca College in 2005 with a Bachelor’s Degree in Cinema and Photography. He currently lives in Acton, MA where he works as a bus driver for children with special needs. He has had short fiction published in “The Cynic Online Magazine” and “Happy Magazine.” Reid Maruyama was born in Santa Cruz, California. He graduated from UC Berkeley in 2012. He now lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Condict Moore is a former editorial staffer at The New Yorker and other magazines who has worked as a newspaper reporter, editor and trial lawyer. His reporting has been recognized by the Louisiana Press Association. He lives in Chicago. John Nomis grew up in Los Angeles and was always around some form of creativity. Initially accepted to UC Berkeley as a Mechanical Engineering major, John quickly learned that he and math just weren’t going to get along. After switching over to English, John was offered a chance to expand on his writing and was able to produce what you see in this edition of the BFR. He is currently an editor for Bleacher Report and is working on his first novel, which is science fiction, to the surprise of no one. This is dedicated to his father, who taught him to pursue what makes him happy and always encouraged his writing. Jessica Zheng is currently a junior at Lynbrook High School. As an avid artist, she is the art editor of her school’s literary magazine, Vertigo, and teaches art to special needs children. Outside of art, Jessica also enjoys STEM-related activities like science olympiad. In her spare time she enjoys listening to music, baking, and taking care of air plants.

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Berkeley Fiction Review’s Sudden Fiction Contest $200 Prize for First Place First, Second, and Third Place will be published in Issue 35 GUIDELINES -Entries are $6 + $4 for each additional story -Make check payable to Berkeley Fiction Review -1000 words of less -Typed, double-spaced

Check http://bfictionreview.wordpress.com for guidelines on how to submit your short story Previously unpublished work only. Submissions will not be returned.

Deadline is April 1st, 2015.

Visit our website at http://bfictionreview.wordpress.com or email berkeleyfictionreview@gmail.com for more information.

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Notes on Contributors

Check http://bfictionreview.wordpress.com for guidelines on how to submit your short story Previously unpublished work only. Submissions will not be returned.

Deadline is April 1st, 2015.

Visit our website at http://bfictionreview.wordpress.com or email berkeleyfictionreview@gmail.com for more information.

NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW

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A Journal Of Contemporary Literature

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poetry

fiction

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reviews

Poetry Fiction Essay

“Attractive … engaging … thoughtful.” ~ NewPages.com

For more information, visit our website at: www.newmadridjournal.org

Interview Translation

Featuring work by: Sherman Alexie, Karen Holmberg, Mario Chard, Jeff Fearnside, Adrian C. Louis, Lee Upton, Susan Rich, Michael Gills, Beth Lordan, William Trowbridge and many more

A Journal Of Contemporary Literature

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PUERTO DEL SOL

a journal of new literature

redivider is... » the longest palindrome in the English language! » one of the top literary journals in New England (Boston Globe) » a 57th Annual New England Book Show Literary Journal winner » featured in Best American Poetry, Best American Fantasy, Pushcart Prize (special mention) » publishing work by Sherman Alexie, George Singleton, Billy Collins, Robert Olen Butler, Bob Hicok, Steve Almond, Denise Duhamel, Marion Winik, Matt Rasmussen… and YOU? » accepting FICTION, NONFICTION, POETRY and ART submissions year round

Now in its 49th year of publication, Puerto del Sol is dedicated to providing a forum for innovative poetry, prose, drama, criticism and artwork from emerging and established writers and artists.

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PUERTO DEL SOL

a journal of new literature

Now in its 49th year of publication, Puerto del Sol is dedicated to providing a forum for innovative poetry, prose, drama, criticism and artwork from emerging and established writers and artists.

facebook.com/ redividerjournal

Recent issues have featured Matt Bell, G.C. Waldrep, Maxine Chernoff, and more.

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featuring

Z.Z. Boone David Calbert Louie Centanni R.M. Cooper

Madison Crystal Jacob Gerstel C.B. Heinemann Wendy Herlich Kate Irwin

Adam Matson Reid Maruyama Condict Moore John Nomis

Berkeley Fiction Review, Volume 34

Articles inside

Unfrozen Adam Matson

Dementia Z.Z. Boone

Milo Kate Irwin

I’ll be Back James Bell

Buzzard Lagoon Reid Maruyama

Your Name is Jane John Nomis

Decision Making Jacob Gerstel Third Place Sudden Fiction

The Long Note C.B. Heinemann