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EPHEMERA Creative Arts Journal

Spring 2022 i

Staff Editor-in-Chief

Hailey O'Donnell

Managing Editor

Mariah Botkin

Senior Poetry Editor

McKale Walker

Poetry Editor

Ryan Kovatch

Senior Prose Editor

Lisa Deluc

Prose Editor

Lauryn Cole

Senior Art Editor

Aazaad Burn

Senior Design Editor

Chloe Lee

Design Editor

Sydney Weinandt

Social Media Manager

Lauren Tokos

Faculty Advisor

Dr. Barbara Mossberg

A Letter From the Editors ephemera (n. pl.) printed records of passing interest that later become memorabilia. Over the course of these last few years, we’ve all developed a relationship with ephemera in some capacity. In reckoning with the state of our world and the state of ourselves, many of us have become well-acquainted with the feeling of trying to hold onto what we fear (or what we know) is fleeting. This is the first issue of Ephemera in about 4 years. We believe the timing for a return couldn’t be more apt. The Clark Honors College challenges its students to be daring; to strive for excellence that is beyond mere performance, but that also involves personal wit. Creative expression is an integral part of this process, and one we believe is at the core of the CHC’s values. This is why it means so much to us to revive Ephemera, which has served as the CHC’s creative outlet and champion for years and will (we trust) for years to come. We hope this long-overdue edition of Ephemera inspires you as much as it has us. As both of us prepare to graduate and begin post-collegiate life, we have been honored to compile this truly wonderful work for you and turn the ephemeral into the eternal. We hope it invites you to realize the value of all things impermanent––that while we may not be able to hold on to some things, we can learn to treasure the memorabilia that joins us together, and in doing so, dare to begin again.

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Table of Contents Backbone I & Backbone II Another Word For Funeral #26 I am not my body A Cotton Continent Just One Perfect Thing Ode to the Fly Paper Me Over grief and spring cleaning "I think I lost my artistry a long time ago." The Moose Untitled The escape Love is Material Untitled Bakery 1316 Alder Street, Eugene, OR 97401 Mary-Grace made me cry Little buried things Untitled Untitled The Chandelier

Olivia Black Jenna Comstock Lauren Tokos Alana Cole Sophia Freeman Alana Cole Casey Houpert Lauryn Cole Ryan Kovatch Corrin Hoyer Anonymous Simone Badaruddin Jessie Chavez McKale Walker Alana Cole Hailey O'Donnell Kyra Lauersdorf Hailey O'Donnell Ryan Kovatch Lisa Deluc

Alana Cole

Sophia Freeman

3 4 5 6 7 8 9 11 13 15 16 17 19 20 21 23 29 31 33

A Note from Dr. B It has been my honor and joy to cheer on Ephemera, as who would not? Go, lovely rose, said Edmund Waller in 1645, and in his words this rose blooms in our minds forever. That is what it has been like, witnessing the goings on in the creative and creating life in the CHC. Here are phenomenal minds at work. And just to say that is to realize the phenomenon of what this publication means—voices jousting impermanence, jaunty defiance against the very definition of ephemera, “noun 1. things that exist or are used or enjoyed for only a short time.” To publish one’s work is to ensure that indeed one’s imagination is immortal. It has always been so, from our first scratchings carved on walls and clay and bark--that effort to get down what is in us to say, to say “I was here,” “this is what it meant to be me, to live this life.” Such scribing is at the core of our humanity. We live lives of impermanence, but in our expression of such lives we create a permanent record, what Emily Dickinson called “working for Immortality.” Here are minds in flight, and fight, struggle and keen insight, brave solos and free falls, dared delight, shared with us, and alive forever. Thank you to the CHC for making permanent moments in the learning of our students, whose later lives of distinction are rooted right here in such ephemera. Ephemera--hah! -Barbara Mossberg, aka Dr. B Faculty Advisor and Professor of Practice, Clark Honors College

Backbone I A backbone alone Stands solemn against the winds Firm, unchanging Two backbones Mirror each other as their hosts turn away Evert, distancing

Backbone II A backbone alone Braces for failures without a foundation Ligaments, supporting Two backbones Can concede to extending hands Hearts, growing

Poem by Olivia Black Art by Chloe Lee

Another Word for Funeral Jenna Comstock You were here when I dreamt you telling me of your dying after I found you in the bathroom melting behind a closed door. I came in to ask if you were sick. You looked at me with the eye that you weren’t cleaning the residue out of and told me it had been happening for a while now, and you led us out the door for a walk. Outside was orange, burnt, and there were things moving only in the direction opposite of us A short long round-backed green-blue animal that you told me the name of, I had never seen one, but you knew of it well. You were even because I wasn’t looking at you. The clouds grew thick enough in the quiet pockets which should have held the sound of your steps that I knew we were walking to a place where you were gone. When I think of it now I know that I said nothing but in the orange dirt I was loud next to your silence. You had another word for funeral, it doesn’t matter the word. You said it the way you say anything you know won’t be met with my eyes.

#26 Lauren Tokos Sleep It inches up Through the crevices of consciousness One yawn Turns into two And three And soon enough The cow jumps over the moon And sheep are waiting to be counted Tasks are abandoned Pencils left dull Homework sits astray Stale coffee turns cold What once seemed daunting Now occurs effortlessly Sleep

I am not my body Alana Cole I do not want to be a fleeting specter Burned white behind your eyes For I know, in my very bones I’m just a very pretty disguise. The very cells that make my body Could scatter on a breeze My head might pop off, I may melt away, With just one well-timed sneeze. My being is a footnote After the masterpiece of my soul I was crammed into a body, But before I was perfectly whole Living days upon an ocean wave And nights singing through the sky Learning how to lick up love When it passes others by. I do not want you to love my body To think I’m a painting to be hung. To appreciate me as a melody, A pretty ditty to be sung. I want to be loved infinitely Beyond my body and my mind I want to be incomprehensible As my body finally unwinds.

A Cotton Continent Sophia Freeman Who are you in sleep, in dreams? Is your voice—“come here”—low and gentle, like river-worn stones? Is your chest soft and wide, a cotton continent? Do your smiles taste like peppermint or perhaps, sun-kissed tangerine? And what if I tipped my forehead against yours the moment you blinked, water droplets clinging to your eyelashes, bright? Would we glow in candlelight? Maybe. But this Maybe is not love looped loud with a Fourth-of-July sparkler. This Maybe is only quietly, hopefully breathed when one’s face is buried in linens fresh from the dryer. And so there it will stay— easier that way.

Just One Perfect Thing Alana Cole

If you asked me to choose just one perfect thing I’d tell you it is her eyes That sing to me the siren song Of the sea and endless skies. No, wait, I’d choose her lovely lips And her joyous grin; The decadent laugh dipped in honey And the sighs that taste like sin. Perhaps I’d tell you it’s the heavenly glow, The sunlight trapped inside her veins That makes her burn with daylight; Constant, gorgeous growing pains. I cannot choose, I feel unhinged, So utterly out of my depth. How can I choose just one perfect thing When she is my very breath? It’s all of her or none of her— Her spiderweb of scars And her cherry pitted lips That makes her a falling star. 7

Ode to the Fly Casey Houpert The slow and swollen fly takes flight through the space of the room Like gas, it manages to fill every space it is released in The buzz that zips past your sensitive ear That tips and taps on the glass that bars open air The silence that is left when it wanders into another room But there is no escape, You know he’s there. He is an itch that is creeping up the forearm That you can’t scratch because You don’t know where it is But there is never a moment where You are not aware 28 days, just 28 days Does he plan to spend his life with me? Will I go to sleep to a flutter above my eyelids Will I wake up to him resting on the counter, Next to a drop of spilled honey The turn of the head captures his flight in the corner Of the room This is it, just come a little closer The hand is ready But all swat does is fling the fly To the other side of the room, frazzled Where it buzzes and buzzes and buzzes.

Paper Me Over Lauryn Cole Write me a letter Pocket the wrapper from your gum Press a petal between my pages Preserve the breath stolen from my lungs Fold my tears into your tongue Find my hair within your bed Catch my voice inside your phone Keep a list of books you haven’t read Paper me over your heart Paste me next to your memories Your regrets, your laugh Mix me up with your dreamiest reveries Collect our crashings and goings (I know I’m but one fragment Of your soul) but tell me I mean enough For you to paint our pieces whole I’ll keep your smiles in my pocket I’ll map your freckles on my skin Your voice will rumble in my chest Coated in sleep when day begins

Pick me from the field Plant me in your ground I’ll tend to you if you tend to me— Wishes made compound You are your own I am, of course, mine We are a hodgepodge of interactions Making up a constellation of borrowed time

grief and spring cleaning Ryan Kovatch i am tearing down this house for what is in the attic: remnants of you i used to squash like bugs, the scratch marks of rage, the soft ribbons from my coming undone. it is a cold, lifeless spring, and i’m demolishing these things i've outgrown. my first time back, i was ill-prepared. you had packed the gloves when you left, so i pried up the floorboards fielding complaints from the flesh. a thousand little cuts like you were here again, and i spent days picking you out of me, then sweeping you away. now i wear a rubber suit and pretend the smell doesn't bother me. over harsh labor, i recall our hushed, lovely winter before you pulled the first nail from the wood. they would say our foundation was the sturdiest ever constructed.

we danced on these floors in our prime and kissed in the kitchen, a sweet scent in the air — you, or whatever was in the oven. i try to light the stove, just to see if i could make something of this, but there is no spark left. just the hiss of gas to remind me of what you extinguished. i have walked miles over these grounds, and now the house barely stands. it creaks with the wind and sinks beneath the sand. gone is most everything to remember you by, but there is still the glass — your broken bottles and the mirrors i punched. i could spend a lifetime gathering it up, but for once, i think i'll just let it stay here. i think i'll just let it stay here, a glimmering reminder of sharp edges and the men who cut worse.

happy spring cleaning.

"I think I lost my artistry a long time ago." Corrin Hoyer I think I lost my artistry a long time ago. Lost in unfolded laundry, In the mold growing in my half-drinken cups of tea, In grief. I used to pay attention to everything, The pressure I place on a single ivory key, I used to love the cold and calloused tips of my fingers. They gave me precision. All I am now is mess. I am scrambling and oozing out of my seams. I lost my skill, my passions, I had to survive. Life didn't want me hammering keys When I didn't want to leave my bed. My fingertips are soft now. And I miss my strength.

But this evening it is snowing. And my young sister believes it was a gift from our father. She is happy for the first time in a Long, Long, While. Her happiness is worth my soft fingers. Gymnopedies rise and fall. Snow melts. But my fingers are soft and Warm. But if I could go back That would be the sweetest miracle.

The Moose Anonymous after Elizabeth Bishop On red, gravelly roads, Down rows of sugar maples One speckled leaf floats by Landing on a farmhouse gable Three gentle spotted cows Lay there among the autumn sky A graceful Morgan horse Along a weathered fence nearby Dull slopes sprinkled in green A background full of bursting sights A calm Vermont evening As the day fades into the night

Simone Badaruddin

the escape Jessie Chavez Our house filled slowly with a begrudging disappointment drowning first the inspiration, then the motivation choked out little flickering glimpses of hope and offered less and less With a lighter to the leg I still craved a cigarette and smeared away the singed flesh so I found myself in Drain at a liquor store where a carton of cabernet sauvignon was $2 and because you can’t drive with schnapps defiling your brain stem I stayed to watch the shadows move across a 7 bodied cemetery in a lonely backyard and thought about all the intricate experiences that make us feel grown how Julia Sparrow (1965-2010) must have had the same feeling of wonder when solace became endearing My motel room hasn’t changed in the last 60 years save a small TV lit by a variegated beam for the lights are both warm and cool and maintenance left a few tools in the cupboard, but when you fall asleep in the bath the heater will kindly wake you If you find you can’t laugh at yourself you can just open your eyes

Its features are a quiet suggestion of cinematic suicide or should be the food of neurosis at the least yet as I sat down to write again in courtesy of heartache and an identity’s fractured quintessence I’m instead fed some umbilical individualism via the white walls blank like everything is until I fruitlessly splatter them with some contrived expectation I’ve never really been so free I spent years trying to earn this moment... kept finding myself at square one begging to be trusted when I contained not an ounce of loyalty or self control I guess others find me self aware now, but might be relieved or terrified to find I don’t know much at all It’s because there’s peace in the novel, in curiosity, that’s why we run and if I could pay student loans with that I’d be under a new set of over-washed, flower printed sheets nightly

Love is Material McKale Walker Empty candle jars, dried flowers, and a postcard with worn edges, Packed into a shoebox a year becomes lightweight. Unused concert tickets, a letter, and a painting pulled from the wall, Tucked into the closet an untouched heart becomes small, Surviving still once the room is emptied. The highest shelf protects the prominence of its pieces, carefully conceals Tokens still considered treasure, still not soft enough to hold. There are things you now have that are not mine to keep, So they will now be yours to hide. I wonder if you will hide them or keep Them on the nightstand by your bed. And there are things I now have that were never yours to keep, So they are now mine to see and touch. And every eyebrow hair I have neglected to pluck, And each time I run a finger over my chapped lips, And every glance I make to my uncut nails and unwashed skin Reminds me. That I am now the sole keeper of my reflection. It now stands in front of mirrors with no audience, As I am left to maintain the material that still exists, This side of the closet door.

Alana Cole

Bakery Hailey O'Donnell For every self-brimmed, broken acre, A morning bun’s in morning paper. And I think, truly, too an awning, Where longing does as dust, belonging. Today was meant to lie like that, Thistled, ashen, token, flat, But as I tucked a loaf in-arm, A promise rose, re-casting harm. A seeded life does well with lots,

And pays in peckish, sour spots. And I’ve been low, I’ve been bare— Or have I just been filled with air? Have I been sunken, burned by pleading? Or have I just been keenly kneading? How, in truth, could heart be missed, When tearing bread in two exists?

To think a moment, all my years, I’ve taken meals with shouldered tears And given each seat ‘round the table Its own hollow, hopeless label. But now, it’d seem, in April’s throw— One much newer, knit more slow— For every low-winged raven cheeping, A careful roll’s in careful keeping. And for each dimming, too, a dawning, Where I ease—well-fed, belonging.

1316 Alder Street, Eugene, OR 97401 Kyra Lauersdorf November 8, 2019, 3:04am Click clack click clack. You really love that sound. You love the purpose it conveys, and the power. It feels as though, with each resounding step, you pull more eyes in your direction and more envy, desire, and respect along with them. Click clack click clack. You really love these shoes––sturdy, stylish, dependable. You once walked across Manhattan in these chunky, suede heels, and why not? You feel amazing when you wear them—like no one can touch you. You cross the quiet campus, and the noise fills the air. You love that, too. You imagine the sound waves bouncing off the sidewalk and out into the world beyond. There she goes! They shout. Look at her! But the audience has emptied for the evening; no one will hear the noise tonight. This early in the morning, little else remains awake besides yourself, the streetlamps, and the frogs chirping quietly as you make your way back home. —— October 21, 2020, 10:48pm As you make your way back home, the boys kick ideas back and forth for their history papers. The one says something smart to the other––apparently something funny because the other laughs and nods his assent. You stopped following their conversation a while ago, so you just smile and refocus on the road. You find it difficult to focus on much else when you walk, now––even when you walk with the boys. A hand on your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts, and you flinch involuntarily at its closeness. Its owner, your friend, immediately retracts it and apologizes, though you doubt he understands what for. You apologize, too; you have no reason to feel afraid. This time, the boys will walk you home. This time, you will get there safely. Buh-bump, buh-bump. You have no reason to feel afraid because this time, you are not alone. 4

—— November 8, 2019, 3:07am You are not alone. Buh-bump, buh-bump. He started following you when you rounded the corner from 13th onto Alder Street. You noticed him as you passed, sitting at 7Eleven, but you did not see him leave the parking lot, and you did not detect him behind you ‘til now. He closes the distance between you very quickly, more quickly than you might have expected. His hands come first. The right one snatches your wrist from the air and yanks you backward, hard. The left one grabs at your hip, then encircles your waist and buries itself in your ribcage. He holds you like this, pinned between his forearm and chest, and lowers his head to your shoulder where you can smell his teeth rotting, hear the skin on his lips cracking into a smile. You feel the laughter rumbling in his chest long before it spills into the air. Your limbs turn feral; your mind, thoughtless. Maybe you black out; maybe you enter some primal state where nothing exists beyond the screaming, shapeless impulse to flee. You do not know. You feel nothing but the oxygen roiling through your bloodstream, the pulse raging across your body. Buh-bump, buh-bump. You slam your skull sideways into his, and he cries out, but he does not let go. Instead, he tightens his grip on your wrist and jerks your arm backward, spinning you around to face him. The movement pulls him off balance––slip!––and you rip yourself from his grasp. Then his arm shoots out to reclaim your waist, but not before your foot cracks into his leg, once, twice, and again, twice more. When his hands leave your body to cradle his shin, you run. Click clack click clack. You run. ——

April 15, 2020, 9:23am You run five kilometers every morning to start your day. It feels good, running; you like the way it makes your lungs burn and your muscles ache and your mind shut out every thought not relevant to keeping your body moving. You drive your legs into the ground, past the cemetery, past campus, past the rhododendron garden––just weeks from full bloom. You can feel the pressure building in your hips and your kneecaps, but you do not stop. Buh-bump, buh-bump. You run because when you run, every impact with the earth sends your anger, shame, and fear deeper into the ground. So long as they stay buried, they cannot hurt you. But you cannot run forever. Eventually, your lungs give out, and your fragile knees yield to the pavement. Anger, shame, and fear repossess your body, like water beneath a sponge: the first zips up your shins, pierces your joints, and lingers, blazing, at the back of your throat; the second slides into your chest and squeezes your heart before burrowing into the pit in your stomach; the last crawls up your spine, slowly and deliberately, until it reaches your skull and settles over your thoughts. It clouds your vision and dulls your perception; it converts every noise into his footsteps, every shadow into his form, every breeze into his corrosive, decaying breath. You should probably talk to someone about this, you think. Yeah, you should probably talk to someone. —— November 8, 2019, 3:10am “You should probably talk to someone,” she says. Her voice sounds deeper and less dynamic through iPhone speakers. “You should call the police, or you should call your parents.” She sounds tired; you must have woken her. “At the very least, you should tell your roommate,” she says. “Maybe he can help?” Her suggestions flit through your ears and back out before your mind can fully grasp them. Three blocks remain between you and home. Click clack click clack. “What will you do?” she asks. I don’t know, you think. I don’t know.

“Hey, are you there? Are you okay? Are you safe?” You exhale into the microphone and forget how to draw air back in. “I need to go,” she says. “Can I hang up?” Okay, you think. Click. Her voice cuts out, but her questions persist as you scale your front steps, enter your apartment, lock your door, and collapse in a shuddering heap on your winestained shag carpet. Are you okay? Are you safe? You still feel his fingers digging into your ribs, hear his teeth grinding in your ear. Buh-bump, buh-bump. You do not have an answer. —— May 9, 2021, 4:55pm You do not have an answer for her when she asks why she can’t walk to Scholls Park alone. She stamps her foot in anger, sending her wispy brown curls swinging back and forth across her neck. You can see that those curls have begun to turn straight; yours did too at about the same age. You look into her piercing, almond-brown eyes and see your own dark irises reflected within them. Those eyes demand an answer from you, but you have none to give. How do you tell a child that the world seeks to hurt her? How do you teach her that she shares it with some who yearn to possess her, contain her, grasp her, restrain her, use her, reduce her, exploit her, rape her? How do you warn her that you cannot protect her, and she cannot escape them—that they will hunt her all through her life with their thoughts and their eyes and their bodies, just as they hunt you and the woman who raised you and her sisters and their mother, too? No, you cannot tell her these things, not yet; you will scare her. But you must find a way to tell her soon. You must find a way to tell her, or they will find her and teach her in their own way––the way they taught you and every girl who came before you. ——

November 8, 2019, 8:32pm Before you crawl into bed, you check the front door one more time. You check the window again, too; you check its lock and the wooden rod that holds it shut. You draw the blinds, then the curtains, then the heavy cloth drapes. You close the air vent for good measure. Confident in your security, if not in your safety, you retreat to your room, lock the door, and turn off the lights. Buh-bump, buh-bump. You take no comfort in the darkness. Tenderly, you prod the swollen tissue at your side. You trace the bandages you wrapped around your forearms, after you washed and dried and disinfected them. You place your palms, one above the other, over your belly, the way your counselor showed you. You breathe in, and you breathe out, just as you always have. Buh-bump, buh-bump. You tell yourself you will forget this. You will climb into bed, and you will sleep, and you will forget this. And you will, almost––not right away, but with time. With time, the bruises on your chest will yellow and fade, and the gashes in your wrist will scab, heal, and disappear. With time, you will leave your apartment; you will walk across campus; you will even go back to 1316 Alder. But one thing will persist, irrespective of time: the laughter, ugly and violent, that rumbled from his chest into yours in the moment he knew he could break you. You will try to forget it, to bury it with the rest. You will do everything imaginable to will that memory away. But I will tell you now and spare you the wondering: you will never forget the laughter.

Minutes pass. As they do, your breathing settles. You cross the room toward your bed but stumble over something in the darkness––something hard and suede. You reach down and lift the short, chunky heel from its place on the carpet. From your left, you retrieve its partner, just as carelessly discarded. Click clack click clack. You loved these shoes; they once carried you all across Manhattan. You loved the sound they made when they struck the pavement; you loved the purpose they conveyed, and the power. You wonder whether that sound will ever make you smile again––whether it will fill you with confidence and pride, as it once did, or rattle through your bones with every step, inseparable from the violence it inspired. Click clack––buh-bump, buh-bump––click clack. You place the shoes on the floor in your closet and climb into bed.

Mary-Grace made me cry Hailey O'Donnell Last night I dreamt of Mary-Grace: An awe, just once invented. And now I drowse, in dying for Just what she represented. We sat there, on some attic floor, Around a tea-lit table. And though she was a child at best, Her air was sage and stable. A golden cross by either cheek, Sewn into her clean veil, She passed a buttered, brilliant cake And shared what she could hail. She said though she was born a Grace, She hated its severity. So Mary fell, unloosed, before, Because it tastes of charity. And it was strange, how I felt— So fond and atomized. I watched her face turn chapel glass As tears convinced my eyes.

And by that bluish haze design, I found as less was shown, I finally could feel she wore A face just like my own. Today, I bought a tablecloth. Today, I bought a frame. I’m not young, if being young Is meaning your own name.

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little buried things Ryan Kovatch i have this daily prayer where i slink down the back roads to the forest’s edge, hear the distant creep of water, and travel in toward the heart. you and i were the only two that got it. following your tracks into the brush — the soil still honors you — i take the turns you had to show me each time until my old mind eventually caught up. our small clearing appears, almost unexpected, the river rushing up like an old friend. i remember when you were young and you thought everything was a toy. i’d throw stones into the water for some small fistful of relief, and you would run face first into the current, surprised you couldn’t step on the surface. you’d yell for me, as if to say, i can’t reach it and i would say it’s okay, i can’t reach it either, that’s the point. and i would scratch your wet coat until the only worry left was water on rock.

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you became a good swimmer in those years that followed, and, knowing you, it was only to show that river who was boss. i’d throw in stones of different sizes, saying go get it, boy, go, and before they even sank, you’d be off diving like a champion of the waves, and always resurfacing with something that was not a rock. (they were too heavy, even for the river, i think, so that much you could surrender.) a boot, a bike tire, and a broken plastic cup sat with your stockpile of driftwood on the other side of the bank. as you got older, i threw the rocks closer to shore. and when you could no longer swim at all, you were content to sniff around for bugs and little buried things — still in every part of you a life worth living. i would help your old paws dig up holes and, on those few blessed days, sit with you in the sun. right now, that golden light burns through where you should be laying. instead, the earth rests over you, your driftwood grave there, and my scratchy hand: now and forever, my closest friend. i pick up a stone to toss for you.

i have this daily prayer, and every time i say it — go get it, boy, go — i hear you splashing again. and, if i say it enough, you’ll be right back.

Lisa Deluc 33

Alana Cole

The Chandelier Sophia Freeman “The chandelier might fall,” I say. “What?” Maureen calls over the music. She smells like the cotton candy Justin bought her at the fair earlier, and she’s so busy smiling, she can hardly focus on me. I know why she’s so happy, even though she hasn’t told me yet—I saw the ring box in my brother’s sock drawer the other night when I was looking for some Mary Jane. And I’m not jealous of her, even though I can’t have the kind of out loud love she has. I did have to take a bite of her cotton candy when she wasn’t looking though–– pink shards of sugared fiberglass sticking to my lipstick before dissolving. My lips feel sticky and chalky now, but it was worth it. My consolation prize. If I’m stuck here, watching old people waltz slow, never-ending circles across the cold linoleum floor, I might as well enjoy myself. I tap the heel of my shoe on the floor, wishing they’d turn off the old-fashioned music so I could hear the echo. Mother wouldn’t let me wear my backless dress tonight, and this really is a depressing, plastic excuse for a ballroom. It’s nothing like the postcards of ballrooms in Vienna or Paris. I sigh. Justin and Maureen will have a white wedding and a baby in a year tops, even though Maureen’s only nineteen and Justin might have to go to Vietnam soon. I clench my teeth. Justin might have to go to Vietnam soon, and Isaiah already got his letter. At least weddings are a good place to swipe a couple bottles of champagne. “The chandelier might fall,” I say again, louder this time. Maureen looks up at it, frowning. It’s an ugly beast of a thing, weighed down by strings of gaudy beads and stubby candles that have never been lit. I heard one of the old church ladies say that they had electricity installed in the church when she was a little girl and that a board member resigned over it ‘cause he thought it was “the devil’s lighting.” Give me a break. 4

“I hope not,” Maureen says, worrying her lip. There’s a line that always appears between her eyebrows when I speak, or convince her to sneak out, or show up at her house with two cans of something other than cherry soda. She might be able to get a prescription for Valium just on the basis that she’s my best friend, if she bats her eyelashes a little in the doctor’s office. The adults are dancing like they’ve never heard of sex in their lives, leaving room for Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Mother and Father are in the corner, swaying at a full arm’s length, probably ‘cause Mother doesn’t want to wrinkle her dress. She’d be pretty if she let her hair down once in a while, but there’s a better chance of her taking a match to this church. I’ve only ever seen it down once. It was when I was little, when she used to braid my hair with soft fingers. When I still called her “Mommy.” One time, when she’d squeezed my shoulders and said, “All done,” I swiveled around from where I was sitting on the floor and climbed up to sit next to her on the sofa. “Can I brush your hair, Mommy?” I squeaked, touching her face. I remembered thinking my fingers looked so small tapping her wide cheekbones. “We’re gonna go dance!” Maureen yells in my ear. “Wanna come?” “Huh?” I look at her, shake my head. “You go.” Maureen shrugs, distracted by her own scintillating happiness. She lets my brother spin her away. Mother considered, hesitating, before that smile, her old smile, overtook her face. “Okay,” she crooned, starting to pull pins from her bun. Her hair unraveled slowly, like it wasn’t used to this freedom, until it settled around her shoulders, crimped at odd angles from being pinned up so long. Her hair was brown then, like mine. “You want some punch, baby?” A guy with too much grease in his hair says to me. I feel like I’ve seen him at one of these church things before. His tongue flicks over his upper lip when he speaks.

I wrinkle my nose and look away as cold as I can, my gaze accidentally landing on Mother. Her hair’s a shiny, strange blonde now. I hardly recognize her. “I’ve got some, thanks,” I say. The guy shrugs and gets in my space a little, which I’m used to. I keep looking away from him, knowing he’ll give up eventually. It’s nothing I can’t handle. But then he whispers low in my ear, “I heard something about you and that kid from the Quarter. I know you’ve already got some, but come on, don’t you want something better?” I freeze. Someone must have seen us. I keep staring at Mother. For a minute, the only sound I hear is my teeth grinding in my ears. I can feel the guy’s hot breath on my neck. “You heard wrong,” I say tightly, biting back venom. I can’t afford to lose it right now. In my periphery, I see the asshole smirk like he thinks he’s won, which I hate, but can’t do anything about. I keep staring straight ahead. Finally, the guy turns, and as he’s sauntering away, I catch, “Have it your way, bitch.” And that’s when something angry and pent-up slams shut in my chest. A single thought stamps out all the rest of them: No. I spin around fast, catching his wrist between my fingers. My nails are painted red, and they’re flashing in the fluorescent light. I know they’re sharp. “What did you say?” I demand, giving my voice hard, cutting edges. The guy’s tongue darts out over his Cupid’s bow right before a sneer rearranges his entire face. His nose is crooked, like he’s been punched before. “ “Nothing,” he says. I wait a beat, then start to relax my hold on his wrist. That’s what I thought. “Bitch,” he adds, like he thinks it’s funny. His breath smells like alcohol, and now I regret spiking the punch. He’s towering over me––a sneering, spitting mountain of a person. I let go of him and take a big step back. My heart is beating hard in my ears.

I brushed Mother’s hair on our old green sofa, back when she still smiled and leaned into my father. My fingers were clumsy with the brush and I kept clipping her ears, but she didn’t say anything. I didn’t know how to braid, but I tried, slipping pieces back and forth until I created a mess. Still, she pulled me into her lap and showed me in the mirror the way we matched, from our blue eyes to our straight noses to our dark hair. Back when she was still my mother, she examined my work and exclaimed, “Thank you!” like it was her birthday. Back when she was still my mother, she would have grabbed this mouth-breather by the earlobe and found his mother’s name in the phone book, threatened to call with her finger on the dial until he apologized and hung his head. But she is no longer my mother, and her hair is honey blonde now, and she won’t let me see Isaiah again, so I take a step forward, jut out my chin, bore my eyes into his, and give him the reaction he wants. “Bastard.” I haulk the word at him, and my spit hits his face. Greasy Hair lunges for me. I grab my plastic cup from the table next to us and thrust it right into his chest. The guy stops, blinks. A splash of pink liquid is soaking through his white shirt, spreading across his chest. “You know what,” I say loudly ‘cause I know the whole room is watching us now —even the music has stopped. “I think I will need another cup of punch after all.” He snorts through his nose like a bull and charges. I don’t look at Mother. Justin has already grabbed the guy by the arms. ——

Back home, I stare out my window. I’m not angry—I knew I would be grounded for a month. Mother would ground me for a year if she didn’t want me to “meet a nice man and settle down” so bad. The only light on is my lamp with the purple shade, so the streetlights from outside are flooding in. There’s a trellis with wisteria climbing up it that brackets my window, and the light is falling and shifting in a diamond pattern on the floor and walls. The window is open and the smell of the wisteria almost makes me dizzy with missing him––Isaiah. It would be so easy to tell Mother I’m going to bed, to put on my long-sleeved, woolen dress—the one that isn’t at all sexy, but keeps me warm and unseen when I sneak out—and to climb down the trellis. But not tonight. If I’m really in the position I think I might be in, I want to stay on Mother’s good side as much as possible. I might need her. The last time I saw Isaiah was two weeks ago, when he showed up outside my window with that awful letter, the one that might take him away from me. I wanted to burn it right away, but he said he couldn’t––said he was a better man than that. That night, I climbed down the trellis and fell into his arms. We walked together and I prayed nobody saw us ‘cause it doesn’t look like love to everyone when someone like me kisses someone like him in the dark. I pulled him with me that night, past our usual place and down the road to the Baptist church that rings with gospel on Sundays. I squeezed his hand, jiggled the latch on one of the windows in the back, and pitched myself over the sill. “Ruthie,” he whispered after me. “Are you sure we can be here?” “No,” I giggled. “But you’re too honorable to let me break and enter by myself.” He gave me a look from the other side of the open window. “It’s alright,” I said. “There’s no one here.” The sound of his feet landing on the floor echoed around us. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been down here in forever,” Isaiah said. I put my arms around his neck. “It’s not the Quarter, but look…”

I pointed across the room to where a gramophone and an upright piano were sitting. A couple of black cases that were so beat up I guessed they were probably church property were lying on the unfinished wooden piano bench. “Instruments,” I breathed in Isaiah’s ear. He smiled, laughing low. “You plan this?” “Maybe…” We danced that night, with rectangles of moonlight moving across the dusty wooden floor. Isaiah played the piano a little, and I set the gramophone so that low, crackly love songs turned us into sappy, saccharine sorts of people. He sang along in my ear and I wished I could have seen him when he used to sing in clubs with his Dad in New Orleans, before he came to live with his grandparents here, before he had to leave his Mom and watch his Dad quit heroin cold turkey in the shed behind their house. I told him I loved him there, on creaky floorboards, cloaked in moonlight. We walked across the street to the recreation center, and this time he picked the lock on the window. We stood, awash in blue light, the swimming pool glowing topaz before us. We left our clothes in a pile on the pool deck, the terrible letter folded carefully in the pocket of his jacket. “I want to marry you,” Isaiah said. We were circling each other, ripples fanning out around us. I held up my palm and he touched his fingertips to mine. Our sign. I came toward him, leaned my forehead against his. “Isaiah.” “Don’t you want to marry me?” I threaded my lips with his. “Yes, yes, of course I do.” “But we can’t,” he said. The words landed like a deadweight between us. “I know,” I said, miserable. Isaiah tugged me closer, holding my waist, and I closed my eyes, melting into him. I ran my palms across the broad plains of his chest, up the sides of his neck, and held his face.

“I know,” I said again, fighting the familiar lump in my throat. He brushed his thumb along my cheekbone. “Don’t cry.” I nodded, watery. “Don’t go.” “I won’t.” He kissed my cheek. “I’m right here. I’m right here.” “No.” I looked into his brown eyes. “Don’t go to Vietnam.” He swallowed. “I have to, but I’ll...I’ll come back.” I watched his Adam's apple bob up, then down as he swallowed again. “I love you. I’ll come back.” I laughed, gently hitting his chest. “You better.” We drifted like that for a long time, clinging to each other. The water was warm, lapping at us, and Isaiah’s lips tasted like the chocolate orange I’d shoved in my bag before climbing down the trellis. We’d split it, piece for piece, in the church basement. After a while, I pressed my fingertips to his and wrapped my legs around his waist. We looked at each other, breathing in sync. “We could get married here,” I whispered. Isaiah’s soft eyes flitted back and forth between mine, a question. A droplet of water slid down his cheek and disappeared into his mouth. I nodded slightly. He still didn’t move, just held me. “Ruthie,” he breathed. “If you want…” His pupils were blown open, and I could see the rippling water reflected in them. “Are you sure?” I nodded again. And there, in the glowing darkness, we were baptized anew. —— Now, I sit up drenched in cold sweat. I keep reliving the memory over and over again, but in the dream, in the horrible dream, something always goes terribly wrong.

My heart is beating wildly in my chest, like it’s trying to escape from something— from me—and I force myself to breathe steadily, to gulp down the glass of water on my bedside table. I get up and go into the bathroom, put both my hands on the counter, and lean my whole weight on them. I stare at myself in the mirror, but I’m too close and my breath fogs up the glass. My eyes are big and scared, and I close them as the wave of nausea hits. I ride it out, and when it’s passed, I go and sit on the closed toilet seat until I can breathe okay again. I look around at all the porcelain. White tiles in the shower, white clawfoot bathtub, white-tiled countertop. White, white, white. Could a child survive this world? Being split down the middle or cut straight out of it? I go back to the mirror and wonder what I would look like as a blonde. Maybe I would look like Mother again, a little voice squeaks in the back of my head. I take another sip of water and push that thought away. I eye the bottle of cleaning solution. It’s been sitting on the counter for a week. I haven’t bled in a month and a half. I go back to bed but don’t sleep. The smell of wisteria invades the dark and the dream comes again. In the morning, I take a hot shower. The water pummels me and I stay there too long. When I get out, there’s a streak of red on my white towel and I almost drop to my knees. I’m hyperventilating and my eyes are streaming and for the first time since she used to braid my hair, I hope that Mother hears. I want her to come in and hold me. I want her to kiss away my tears. But then I remember: she’s at a ladies luncheon this morning. I put the bottle of cleaning solution back under the sink with shaking hands. T.Then sit on the cold, tiled floor, wrapped in my white towel. In the dream, the church chandelier does fall. It crashes down onto us in the pool, trapping both of us under it until the bubbles stop coming up.

Ephemera Creative Arts Journal: Spring 2022