Crack the Spine - Issue 163

Crack the Spine

Literary magazine

Issue 163

Issue 163 September 16, 2015 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2015 by Crack the Spine

CONTENTS James Seals

Before the Week’s End

Carl Boon Laundry

Kevin Thomas Traffic Jam

Anne Reingold The Change

Luanne Castle

Small Solace

Katie Moore Ibeji

Jeffrey H. Toney

The Quiet Raspberry Wormhole

James Seals

Before the Week’s End

Janice held Sammie in her bare lap. Her long, dirty-blonde hair drooped over her dead cat as she stared at its melted brown fur and bugged eyes. She sat cross legged in her laundry room, crammed between the drier and the scuffed wall that prevented anyone from opening the front loader all the way. Janice caressed the only patch of Sammie’s unburned tail. She tried her best to ignore the smell of cooked flesh.

That Friday morning Janice had woke, stretched, smiled, believing that nothing – not even her defiant teenage daughter – would fuck her day up.

Janice tried to cry as she cradled her Sammie within the ruined bundle of justbought white towels she had promised her husband would be ready for use that evening.

“Stupid cat,” Janice whispered.

Paul, Janice’s plump husband, had roused before the alarm clock that morning. Janice used to ask him to sleep until at least the alarm sounded.

“I decide when I get up,” Paul had replied.

“Then why do you set it?” Janice asked.

But Paul picked and chose the few questions he felt needed a real response; Janice had learned to ask only the important questions if she wanted a real reply: What do you want for dinner; can I have money for the store; what would you like me to do now?

Paul rolled over that Friday morning without saying a word. He placed his left hand on Janice’s right boob then jiggled it in a manner he used to refer to as foreplay. Janice said nothing as she removed her red panties. Paul stopped his

fondling to strip off his sweat pants and tighty whities. They each left their Tshirts on. Seconds later, at least in Janice’s mind, Paul was already crooning in the shower, and Sammie had already returned to his favorite spot, nestled on Janice’s left shoulder, taking in the lavender fragrance of her dollar-bin deodorant.

Sammie had protested Janice’s leaving. She played their game – tucking her white comforter around him – before standing up. He meowed at her, complaining again like he had become wont to do. Janice smiled at Sammie.

She stood, picked up her panties, pulled them on, making sure her favorite Professional Bull Riding T-shirt – the one with a picture of her favorite bull, Bushwhacker, on it – covered her skinny butt. Sammie shadowed Janice as she exited the bedroom.

“Time to wake, Baby,” Janice said into the cracked door of her ten-year-old son’s room.

Janice tiptoed toward his Spiderman-adorned bed. She took note of Luke’s rearranged book and toy shelves. She giggled at his compulsive need to organize then reorder his stuff.

“Hey, Mama,” Luke said. “I changed my room.”

“It’s wonderful,” Janice replied.

“I don’t think so.”

Janice ran her long fingers through Luke’s surfer-style hair cut. She slowly moved her finger tips along her little boy’s cheeks until he quivered; she grinned at him. Janice’s daughter, Zene, used to love when Janice tickled her face or back or arms. They used to sit together for hours every morning – Janice stroking her little girl’s arm – playing then replaying Zene’s favorite episode of a Dora talking and singing with Map. Then one day Zene had grown

to hate Janice’s finger nails, Janice’s grilled-cheese sandwiches, Janice’s whatever Zene chose to hate at the moment.

“Do you hate me?” Janice had yelled at Zene when she entered middle school.

“It’s just sarcasm, Janice,” Zene replied. “Gosh. Can you not?”

Janice still wished she would have smacked her daughter’s smart mouth that day. Maybe Zene would today think twice before speaking, before again smarting off. But she hadn’t smacked or yelled or corrected Zene’s actions.

Janice left Luke so he could dress, brush, systematize. She made her way to the kitchen, bypassing Zene’s room for fear of being accused of waking Zene too early, too meanly, too annoyingly. Janice even held her breathe as she hurried by Zene’s door.

But she whispered to herself when she entered the kitchen, “Morning, Sweetie.”

Sammie pawed his old toy rat with its dull-ringing bell before he jumped onto the counter.

“Sammie,” Janice said.

Sammie meowed in reply.

“Don’t you start talking back too.”

Sammie tilted his head in that cute way cats do when they want something.

“Get down,” Janice said.

Sammie stayed still.

“Get down now, Sammie,” Janice barked.

“What the,” Janice heard come from Zene’s room.

“See what you did?” Janice said. “Now I’m in trouble.”

Janice frowned at Sammie. Her forehead crinkled as she brought her eyebrows together.

“Stupid cat,” she said, brushing him off the counter.

Janice pivoted on her left foot, grabbed cereal from the pantry. Placed bowls on the table. She moved as quickly as she could, ensuring that Paul’s lunch was prepared if he decided that morning to bring a sandwich or leftover pizza.

Janice packed fruit, yogurt, and crackers for Luke’s lunch; he appreciated whatever his Mama packed for him. Zene will pack her own lunch, since Janice seems incapable of getting it right. Janice opened the drier door, stuffed the new towels inside. She looked around for drier sheets, but she couldn’t remember where she had last placed them. She waved her hands in the air before heading to the kitchen to remove Kibble from beneath the sink.

“Come eat, Sammie,” Janice said.

She readied Luke’s backpack. She wrote Zene a note: My beautiful girl I hope you have a fabulous day.

Love you.

Mom. “Why do you talk to that stupid cat?” Zene asked when she entered the kitchen.

Janice sighed at her daughter. She knew no answer was the right answer for Zene. Zene huffed as she waited for Janice to reply. Zene looked at the cereal on the table. She shook her head, snatched a banana from the fruit bowl. Zene walked about the open space as she ate. Paul entered the kitchen.

“Morning,” he said.

Neither Janice nor Zene said anything as he weaved around them. He took his keys from its hook then left for work.

Zene looked at her mom, rolled her eyes. She spun around, kicked the drier door closed. Janice felt grateful for any sort of help. Then she rushed over to the drier, set the right temp and time, pressed start.

“Come eat, Luke,” Janice hollered.

“I’m not hungry,” Luke replied. “Thanks though.”

Janice smiled.

“Whatever,” Zene said. She walked over to the trash, dropped the banana peel half-in half-out of the can.

Janice smiled. “Not today,” she said.

After a few minutes, Janice listened as the front door slammed when Zene and Luke left for school. She went about her chores, paying no attention to the dull thud of Sammie baking in the drier.

Janice stared at the driver of a stopped SUV beside her. She had hoped to beat the second to last red light before the turn into her mother’s complex, but when she slammed on her brakes for fear of rear ending a Mercedes, she resigned to the feeling of nothing in her life would ever go her way. The latethirties, early-forties male driver to her left seemed to convulse. His shoulders bounced and his head looked as though it may tumble into his lap. The Hispanic-looking – Who can know for sure these days – driver’s face scrunched as he wiped a trickle of tears from his face.

A song about what a singer would have done for his former girlfriend blared from Janice’s radio. She reached over a double Ziploced Sammie, who lay rocksolid in her lap, to turn off the music. Then she powered down her passengersside window. Janice wanted to hear the sound of the man crying. She had never heard a male weep before, not even when her father’s father had died or when

Paul’s hippy mother had disappeared into the woods to become one with nature. There were so many men at her grandfather’s funeral and at Paul’s mother’s Going Beyond Ceremony that she had expected some sort of mannish breakdown to emerge. But it didn’t happen, and all that sounded from the sporty, silver SUV was a rhythmic thump of R&B turned up louder than necessary.

“Asshole,” Janice shouted moments before the man began pounding his black steering wheel with his right palm.

Janice shook her head at the man’s child-like spasm.

“Amateur,” she shouted, then she floored her car’s accelerator after hearing impatient honks blaring from vehicles behind her.

The plastic from Sammie’s bag made Janice’s bare legs sweat. She had no idea what she intended to do with Sammie, but she had absentmindedly stuffed him into the Ziplocs right after she had thrown on to her passenger seat her favorite pair of blue jeans, a couple of T-shirts, and the first pair of new workout shoes she had been allowed to buy in seven years.

Janice drove the familiar route – pass the historic post office, turning right by Dickey's Barbecue Pit, and along the taxpayer-maintained Greenbelt – to her mother’s apartment. Janice’s phone rang a couple of times during the drive: one from Paul who likely called to again talk about his information-technology work and the other from the pediatrician who likely called to reveal more bad news about Luke’s irritable bowel. Janice felt grateful that she hadn’t yet heard from Zene’s principal, but she knew the daily call was coming: Zene has again been awarded detention because she again refused to stop talking, because she again won’t put away her cell phone, because she again is acting like Zene.

“Where have you been?” Janice’s sister, Lisa, shouted from their mother’s kitchen.

Janice said nothing as she paced the living room. The aroma of bargain boxed mac and cheese filled the small apartment. Janice still felt a bit uncomfortable around Lisa even though Lisa had profusely apologized for almost two years after having been caught tonguing Paul in Paul’s man garage.

“There’re no good men in Idaho,” Lisa had yelled in her own defense.

Janice didn’t know what to respond to Lisa’s accurate statement; Janice had even included Paul in the “no good men” comment. Lisa though had tried hard to find a mate: online dating, Facebooking, Craig’s Listing, talking to every Tom with a hairy dick at the grocery store. But nothing that hot, adulterous summer night except clichés entered Janice’s thoughts: So you take my man; being the other woman doesn’t make you special; and, you put the “ho” in homewrecker.

Instead Janice whispered, “No one asked you to move here.”

Lisa had one day shown up on Janice’s doorstep from California. Lisa seemed to follow Janice everywhere: from Santa Fe to Phoenix to LA, ending up in Boise.

Paul and Lisa – whose thighs had still been touching – both leaned forward, each turning a good ear to Janice, as if leaning in would somehow resurrect Janice’s whispered words. They both stared at Janice, waiting for the screams, the tears, the F-word, which she had taken a liking to: F those Iranians, F those democrats, F Obama Care and the Clintons too.

“I’m sorry,” Janice had said to both Paul and Lisa, then she exited the garage, went to her room, slept on the floor next to her king-sized bed, still wearing the nice dress that she had ironed that afternoon because she wanted to experience pretty at least once every six month.

“Where’ve you been?” Lisa shouted a second time as Janice paced their mother’s living room.

“You know I’ve got a doctor’s appointment,” Janice’s mother said.

“Where’re your pants?” Lisa asked.

Janice looked up from her pacing. She had failed to notice that her mother and Lisa had entered the living room. Janice looked down at her bare legs. She heard the excitement of a game show coming from her mother’s room. Janice shrugged.

“Sammie,” she said. “I killed Sammie.”

“Why would you do that?” Lisa asked.

Janice glared at her older sister. Lisa held her phone close to her face, probably playing Candy Crush because that’s all Lisa seems capable of doing since she drank and drove her driver’s license away a couple of months back.

Janice had become Lisa’s, her mother’s, Zene’s, seemingly everyone’s chauffer since she had the time and because she was only a stay-at-home wife.

“Are we going to be late for my appointment?” Janice’s mother asked. “Of course, we’re going to be late.”

“I killed Sammie,” Janice replied. She dropped her arms straight down. With her long legs exposed and her skinny arms dangling, Janice looked much taller than her five foot eight inch height.

“That’s sad,” Lisa said without looking up.

“Are you going to put some pants on?” Janice’s mother asked.

“Sammie’s in the car.”

“I thought you said he was dead,” Lisa said.

“He is dead and he’s in the car,” Janice replied.

“Why would you drive your dead cat around?” Lisa asked.

“We’re going to be late,” Janice’s mother said.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Janice shouted.

Everyone looked at each other.

“Don’t speak to me that way,” Janice’s mother replied.

“Sammie’s dead – ” “So what? You don’t talk to Ma that way,” Lisa shouted, giving Janice her full attention. “Besides, it’s just a fucking cat.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. Just a cat.” Janice said. She began to sway. Janice layered her hands over her stomach, like pregnant mothers tend to do. “I didn’t mean to –” “We’re going to be late,” Janice’s mother said. “Now we’re not going to be able to stop at Dickey’s.”

Lisa said nothing, her attention once more given to Candy Crush.

Janice kept her eyes on her mother’s beige carpet as she walked through the living room, out the front door. Her PBR T-shirt inched up, exposing her panties as she hurried down the two flights of stairs that led from her mother’s third-floor apartment. She unlocked her car door, grabbed hold of Sammie, slung him onto the passenger floor. She felt no sorrow for herself or Sammie or her mother as she raced from the apartment complex.

Janice pulled into Luke’s elementary school’s parking lot. She stopped in a handicap-designated space – Why do they always have the best parking – that allowed her to better watch the playing children. Many of the boys looked similar to Luke: slender, handsome, kind. One of them may have been Luke, but Janice couldn’t tell for sure.

“Where’s my baby?” she asked, scanning the playground. She wanted to hug him, to hold him. She wanted to be held.

Janice fixed her eyes on some boys who were pushing and shoving another student. She watched a chubby boy and his posse bullying the student whose hair swept across his face like one of those skate punks who skateboarded off the paint of newly-painted handrails and who zagged with their skinny jeans into the way of decent folk.

“Kick his ass,” she whispered. Janice smiled at her own words. She turned up her radio, listened to the whiny gurgle of Indie rock music.

Janice remembered Sammie lying on the passenger floorboard. She reached across her console – coins thrown about, coffee and burger stains, random sheets of paper collecting – grabbed the Ziplocs that contained him. She lifted Sammie to chest level. She studied the contents of the plastic bags.

“I miss you, Sammie,” she said.

Janice set the bags onto her bare legs. She again took notice of the bully.

“Leave him alone,” she shouted, then she dashed from her car. Janice hurried along the concrete sidewalk to the playground, which allowed her a glimpse into the classrooms of those stylishly-dressed young chicks who were imported to Idaho from the big city to save the district’s “educationally challenged” students and the district’s ever-shrinking budget. Janice’s PBR Tshirt rose and fell – peek-a-booing her red panties – as she charged toward the bullying.

“You want to pick on someone?” she shouted.

“Who’re you, lady?” the chubby boy asked.

“Push me you fucking asshole.”

“She has a dead cat,” another kid shouted.

Janice glanced at the other kid, then she stole a look at the blue plastic slide; the bright-yellow, plastic rock walk; the little girls with fancily braided hair; and some boys who looked nothing like Luke. She wanted to smack that grimacing kid’s face for talking about her Sammie. She wanted to teach him a lesson, but she had no idea which lesson he needed learned. Janice returned her attention to the bully. She closed the distance between them. She hovered over the eight or nine or ten year old boy. She felt confused by his sweet smell of baby powder.

“Get away from me,” the chubby boy said. “Get that dead cat away from me too.”

“Stop picking on him,” Janice shouted.

“Leave me alone, lady.”

“What’d you call me?” Janice asked.

“Nothing.”

“You think you can talk to me that way?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m not an old lady,” Janice replied.

“You’re crazy, lady,” the chubby boy replied. “You’re a crazy cat woman.”

Janice swung Sammie at the chubby boy’s shoulder. He shrunk into himself, which caused Sammie to smack into the boy’s head. The boy stumbled over his own feet. He fell backward. Janice heard high-pitched shouts, demanding her to stop as she continued to beat the boy with her dead cat. A small crowd of children had circled them both.

“Leave me alone,” the chubby boy said, then he began to cry within the cocoon of the fetal position.

Janice held Sammie above her head, threatening to again strike the bully. Her body began to shake. Her legs felt weak and hot and sticky. Janice’s arms throbbed; she hadn’t worked out in over a year and hadn’t done anything this physical since quitting the evening power-walking group with her Mormon friend. Janice really enjoyed her Mormon’s company and advice and wholesome beliefs, but Janice felt embarrassed by her husband’s philandering, especially after Janice had reluctantly revealed to her Mormon a few wonderful things about Paul, which led an mortified Janice to abandon the group without warning.

Janice swung Sammie at the bully, but there was no intent in her action; so she missed her target. She spun around, heard some giggles. She took note of adults moving her way. She ran back to her car.

“We’re calling the police,” someone yelled.

Janice watched teachers or administrators talking and pointing. The blare of music from her car stereo prevented her from hearing anything they may have shouted. Janice put her car into reverse, squealed her tires, then shifted to drive as her phone dinged. Janice again threw Sammie onto the passenger-side floor. She checked her texts.

Lisa – What’s ur prob Lisa – Ma missed her appointment Paul – Where r u? Ur sister called.

Janice wanted to scream after reading that Lisa dared contact Paul. Janice though continued reading the missed texts.

Lisa – Stop actin like child Zene – Can I go to Liam’s after school Paul – ?

Lisa – What the fuck’s ur prob Zene – Hello! R u gonna answer me Janice jumped when her phone rang. She looked up at the road, corrected the car back into her lane. She looked at her phone again: Norton Elementary School. Janice threw her phone at the passenger door. It rebounded off the black-plastic interior, off her favorite pair of blue jeans, landing on top of the Ziploc bags, which had split open after having been used as a bully club. Janice listened to her phone ring then to the sound of incoming texts as she took the I26 West on ramp.

Janice listened to the soulful voice of ZZ Ward as she sped 85mph toward the bitter cherry trees of Oregon. She tasted bile in her burning throat. What’ve you done, Janice thought. The smell of decay began to pervade the car. Janice powered down her windows. The cooling, evening air soothed her as her hair tickled her back, her arms and shoulders.

“Oh fuck,” Janice said.

Janice noticed the white, red, and blue flashing lights of a cop car in her rearview mirror. The officer must have been two or so miles back, which Janice believed gave her enough time to evade him, if he were actually in pursuit of her. She took the next exit.

Janice’s phone rang and dinged, then dinged, then dinged again.

“Leave me alone,” Janice said.

She slowed her car as she came to a stop sign. No cops in sight. She looked left then right: dirt road or dirt road. She had her choice of either driving alongside seven-foot high corn stalks or the perfectly manicured rows of a

potato field. Janice turned left. She believed the stalks would hide her from the law. She wanted to feel safe and concealed from the world.

After five minutes Janice pulled over, parking both her front and back leftside wheels in the cornfield’s dry irrigation ditch. She sat for a moment, staring at the green, floppy corn leaves. She let her shoulders relax. Janice leaned her forehead on her steering wheel. She wanted to cry. She hadn’t yet cried. But the rot of Sammie began to distract her.

“Nothing,” Janice said to herself. “I just want a moment of peace.”

Janice’s phone dinged.

Janice grabbed both her phone and the plastic Ziplocs that contained Sammie. Sweat on her hands caused the bags to slowly loosen from her grasp as she walked. Janice had no idea what she wanted or what she was going to do next. She kicked at the brown dirt. The acidic odor of potatoes masked the alcohol-like scent of corn. Janice’s stomach grumbled. She wanted to holler now that her body was making demands of her. She laid down, still clutching Sammie. Janice looked at her texts.

Paul – What’s going on Zene – Mom? Paul – Mr. Stevens called. He said you beat up a child. Call me now!

Lisa - ?

Zene – Can I go or not?

Janice tossed her phone to her left. She cared nothing more about looking at the rest of the messages or seeing who had called: who needed her now, who required her attention. Janice sat up. She still had hold of Sammie. She stood.

Janice walked ten steps into the corn field, dropped to her knees. She placed Sammie to her right then she began to dig.

Janice flung dirt between her legs, to her right and left side. She listened to the clumps of dirt thud back onto the field. Sweat crept down her brow, beaded on her now mucky forearms and legs. There were droplets of mud all around her. Janice stopped digging when she felt satisfied the hole was deep enough to bury Sammie. She opened the broken Ziplocs, dumped her cat into the ground.

Janice kept hold of the bags; she intended to recycle them whenever she had the opportunity.

“I miss you,” Janice said. “My poor Sammie.”

She wanted to say something special about her best buddy. She wanted to talk about his kindness and loyalty and comforting soul. But she didn’t for fear of speaking the wrong things.

“Sorry, Sammie,” Janice said. “I wish I could have been a better mother to you.”

Janice filled the hole. She moved without thought, like she was performing an interpretive dance. She mounded the dirt. She looked at her filthy hands and the dirt that had collected beneath her finger nails. Then she waited. She waited for tears, for the overwhelming feeling of loss. She sat on her bent legs, sifting earth through her fingers. She lingered for ten minutes. Then she resigned to the fact that no tears would come.

Janice stood. She walked back to her car, wondering: if her mother’s doctor would reschedule the appointment, if Luke needed soccer cleats or not, if there was enough milk for tomorrow’s cereal. She tried to blank those thoughts, but similar wonders raced about her mind. Janice exited the corn field. She long stepped to her car. She grabbed hold of her car’s door handle, but she stopped when she heard her phone ringing.

“Hello?” Janice asked when she answered the call.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Who’s this?” Janice asked.

“Duh. Who do you think?”

“Hey, Zene. What do you want?”

“Can I go?”

“What?”

“To Liam’s?”

Janice said nothing. She looked at the lowering red sun.

“Hello? Can I go to Liam’s?”

“Sure,” Janice replied.

“Really?”

Janice wanted to remind Zene to call or text whenever she went somewhere other than Liam’s house. She wanted to remind Zene that she needed to return home by curfew. Janice felt the need to say and do all the parenting parts that she had become accustomed to performing by herself. She played the bad cop to Paul’s no cop.

“Sure,” Janice said.

“She said it’s okay,” Zene hollered to someone, likely Liam. “Thanks, Ma. You’re the best.”

Janice hung up the phone. She turned around then walked to her car. She threw her phone onto the heap – her new shoes, favorite jeans, T-shirts – in her passenger seat. She remembered the plastic bags in her hand; she tossed those foul-smelling Ziplocs onto her backseat. Janice started her car then she began to cry. Tears streamed down her dirty face. Janice’s shoulders bounced.

She wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed. As she sniffled she could

still smell the decay of Sammie and the acidic odor of potatoes mixed with the rusty aroma of earth. Janice did nothing to stop her tears.

Janice looked about when her crying had stopped. She felt embarrassed by her loss of restraint. She again began thinking about her chores and the tasks that she must complete before the week’s end. She took of the gear shifter, placed the car in drive. She listened to the hum of her wheels as she merged onto the highway. She sat up tall. Opened her chest and widened her shoulders.

She smiled as one last tear rolled down her cheek.

Carl Boon Laundry

Who's doing the laundry while we’re running around, chasing buses, making sentences for dollars?

It must have been laundry day today—I watched sheets and yellow nightshirts all the way from AvcĹlar, stretched across balconies, flapping in the sun, but I didn't see who put them there, cold thumbs pinching clothes pins. Hours before lunch, I'm reading the story of the Spanish Moors in Istanbul while someone is deciding where the jeans should go. Someone high has gauged the breeze with a finger, smelling of Yumos fabric softener. All the heroes go unrecognized.

All those socks to sort and hang, sort of like the work of commas and semicolons, tedious, unrewarding.

Someone loves us with the language of frayed underwear.

Someone else is working on an essay in the dark, dreaming of a smooth mattress with you stretched on it.

Kevin Thomas Traffic Jam

Even a traffic jam looks majestic, blinkingly terrific, from the sky, from the window of a plane, seat 6c, next to a man who smells of cold sausage, and in the dark of the night, the red and white lights piled up on freeways, chugging through urban grid like blood through the arteries of a fat man, fake at being picturesque.

It's been confirmed: the man who came long after his father left was responsible for the Aunt's black eye the summer of '84. She stepped in front of his Mom, heroically it's now revealed, and took the red-knuckled fist to her face, before falling. Sober, not drunk as was previously stated by all parties present.

That explains the broken coffee table with the glass inlay. The broken lamp, too.

The Aunt, a heroine bordering on mythic proportions now, took those with her as she fell to the purple carpet. His Mom had swept up the broken glass, silently, wiping the August sweat from her brow.

The plane tilted, banked left, and from the window a bright blue square amongst the houses far below caught his attention. A pool, possibly? That too a mystery that could take thirty years to solve.

Anne Reingold The Change

The Change began its journey through my body catching me unaware, like a drop of ink beginning its stealthy invasion in a bowl of clear water.

Here in the burning coals that spread through me like a wild forest fire.

Here in the shameful roll of soft flesh that’s taken up residence over my once flat dancer’s belly.

Here in the cold depression that holds me hostage, dangling me over the abyss.

Here in the forgetful room where words escape me.

There is no voice in our world for this change.

We are irrelevant, no longer needed, quietly escorted to the executioner’s block.

But my blood will not go gently.

I hear her scream, “Now say goodbye and begin anew!”

Like a lotus rising from the mud I will rise and ascend the throne to take my place as The Queen I was born to be.

Luanne Castle Small Solace

The women he worked with at the luggage store teased him all the time. When Mildred, the gouty one, needed a duffel bag on the top shelf near the high ceiling, she would call to him in front of her customer, “Dab, dear, do you think you could possibly reach that navy bag with the red trim up there?” She would point way up high and smile sweetly at Dab. Dab thought at first that if he scrambled quickly up the wooden ladder he could embarrass her, but he was wrong.

The others weren’t quite so obvious. Dolores spent her time between customers leaning against the back side of a wallet display case, staring out the front door at the men passing. Sixty-year-old stockbrokers and sixteen-year-old newspaper delivery boys fascinated her quite as much as men closer to her own age, which Dab guessed at mid-twenties. Dolores’ one requirement for men was physical attractiveness.

She seemed aloof, but Dab was convinced her manner was caused by her dreaminess. The only time she seemed to be aware of the store around her was when she would passionately sigh to her nearest coworker (even if it happened to be Dab), “God, he’s gorgeous. So tall and everything.” Then she would toss back her teased long hair and close her dark eyes in simulated ecstasy. Even when he learned to steel himself against his response, he still shivered.

Susan looked at Dab sadly whenever a large luggage shipment came in by truck on Mike’s day off. Mike was the 19-year-old stockboy, and Dab thought he was the laziest one they’d had since Dab had started working at Lederman’s. As

often as Dab carried one or two hundred cartons in by himself and stacked them, the women never really believed he could do it. They didn’t understand even a small man has more developed upper body strength than most women.

Dab’s mother had explained that to him over and over when he was growing up.

It was from his mother and her innocent confidence that Dab had gotten his name. She had christened him Walter James Dalrymple after his father who died when Dab was three; but as a baby he had been so tiny, albeit perfectly formed, that she had started calling him Momma’s little Dibby Dab and the name “Dab” had stuck with him. Few people who knew Dab as an adult were even aware his real name was Walter. When he first started working in the store, Dab bought a tan calfskin wallet and initialed it, WJD. This had made the women curious, so he told them the nickname came from his surname. He couldn’t let them discover its true origin. He decided not to buy any more wallets after that close call.

Dab considered himself an educated person. For the last two years, he’d been within fourteen credits of graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice. Since he was a young boy, Dab had wanted to be a police officer. When Dab was thirteen, a boy he knew from the school bus overheard Dab exhilaratedly discussing his plans and had sneered at him, saying, “Grow a few feet first, Dalrump. Police have their standards, you know.” Since then he had maintained a certain distance from his dream.

On the first chilly October day of the year, Dab rearranged a display of expensive luggage when Mrs. VanderMeer sailed in the front door. She hugged her lynx coat close to her body, her black leather gloves crumpled in one hand at her chest, as she glided regally to the luggage department.

Dad heard Susan’s voice in a fierce whisper, “I wonder if she skins the animals alive herself.” The only times Dab had seen Susan animated was when she talked about animal rights.

One day Dab stopped to consider this about Susan and realized he respected her for it. He wasn’t of that mind himself; in fact, if there was one thing Dab loved it was leather. That was one reason Dab didn’t mind staying on in this job that was so beneath him. He had just explained this to his mother over the phone last night for what was probably the thousandth time.

The smell of leather had hooked him to begin with. When he came to apply for the sales job to help him finish up his last year of college, Dab had been struck by the fragrance when he first opened the front door. He had stood for a moment as the warmth and richness tingled up his nostrils.

Mrs. VanderMeer looked imperiously around. Dab brushed his hands together and smiled apprehensively at her. He knew Mrs. VanderMeer and what a rich pain in the neck she was. They all knew. Without glancing back, he knew that Mildred and Susan had evacuated the selling floor, leaving Dab alone with the woman.

He opened and discussed the features of over twenty different suitcases for Mrs. VanderMeer before she decided on the first one he had shown her. This didn’t surprise him. He knew customers well enough to immediately locate the perfect item—it was helping them discover this themselves that took the time.

When Dab and Mrs. VanderMeer walked to the cash desk, Dab’s coworkers gradually returned to the floor. Dolores walked past Dab and her hair grazed his skin. In reaction, Dab pounded the register keys too powerfully and then felt calm.

“Can I carry that out to your car for you, Mrs. VanderMeer?” Dab handed her back her credit card. He was always polite and helpful to older people, even if he didn’t especially care for them.

As he shut the trunk of her Mercedes, Mrs. VanderMeer reached over, glanced down at him, and patted Dab on the head. “Thank you very much.

You’re a nice boy.”

Dab quickly peered through the showcase window to make sure Dolores hadn’t seen that. She was watching a group of businessmen on the other side of the street. Her hair was sleeked down on the sides and shone like espresso lambskin. Dolores brought her hands up to push up the teased top of her hair as she leaned against the wallets. Dab thought how perfect her fingers were for working with leather; they were as supple and satiny as if they too were made of leather.

As Dab entered the store, Mildred stepped in front of him. She came down too hard on her bad toe and sighed. Dab tried to keep moving toward the stacks of luggage, but Mildred stood her ground and wouldn’t let him pass. Then she smiled, clenching her teeth from the pain. “He saw the cases you left out, dear.

I’m afraid he’s not too pleased.”

Frowning, Dab walked a little faster. Susan squeezed his elbow. “I tried to cover for you, Dab. Lederman’s hot at that mess.”

The boss was waiting for him in front of the velvet luggage. “What’d you sell her, Dab?” The owner was a reddish man. His eyebrows and thinning hair were a coppery color and wiry, which clashed with his flushed complexion. He had brownish green eyes that to Dab always seemed to know more than the man himself could know about what went on in the shop.

“A large wardrobe case, Mr. Lederman. She wouldn’t let me clean up. She was in a big hurry. I didn’t want to lose the sale.” Dab hated the trembling in his voice.

“Yeah, that woman’s a pain in the fucking ass. Just get it cleaned up. Don’t tell the girls I didn’t shout, will you.” Lederman squeezed out a grimace as he winked at Dab. That afternoon Susan walked by with a basket of leather address books to sort for inventory.

“I’ll take those.” Dab reached for the basket.

She looked at him suspiciously. “How come?”

“It’ll give me something to do. If I don’t start the inventory up there, I’ll end up having to count luggage.”

Susan mock sighed. “Dab and his leather goods!”

Dab set the basket on the floor behind the address book case. Every shelf of the case was filled with leather books from tiny, shirt-pocket size to those the length of a legal pad. Dab sat down and prepared a sheet to begin the inventory.

When he placed his hand on the first leather book and pulled it off the shelf, the sensation of the skin made the flesh of his palm tingle in response.

Dab stroked it absent-mindedly. It was a smooth Italian calfskin—the kind with wonderful crinkles wherever the lines of the design dipped or curved—in dark red. And not just any old maroon, but a real burgundy like French wine in a goblet held up to the light: rich and deep, yet clear and delicate. Dab held it up to his face and inhaled. Even its smell was heady.

An hour later, Lederman came out of his office a little redder in the face than usual. "Dab! My office!" He jerked his head toward the door. A whoosh went across the store as if all the employees sucked in their breath at the same time.

Lederman sat behind the old merchandise gondola that served as his desk.

After a moment's hesitation, Dab perched on the edge of a chair filled with leather portfolios in separate cellophane sleeves.

"Put them on the floor!" Lederman barked. "Inventory problems. I understand the women's wallet shrinkage is up from last month." He grabbed a sheet from his desk and jabbed a finger into the paper. "Eleven percent shrinkage? What the fuck is that?"

Dab realized the back of his shirt was beginning to stick to his skin. "I-I-I know it sounds like a lot, but I'm sure I did it accurately . . . ."

"Accurate shmaccurate. Do it again. If I take these figures to the bank, they'll laugh me out of town." Lederman nodded toward the door and turned his swivel chair around. Thus dismissed, Dab couldn't say anything else.

As he walked out onto the floor, Mildred approached him, snapping her gum.

Her cheeks, hazy with gray fuzz, worked against the chewing gum, filling and deflating in a rhythm that matched her limp. "Come help me with the luggage inventory, darling. You can climb the ladder and call out prices to me. I'll write.

Then you can fill me in on what the boss said."

Dab walked past her, stumbling on an extension cord and fell into a set of soft nylon luggage on display near the backroom door. His mind was on the inventory. He thought how stupid he had been.

"Careful, big guy." Mildred laughed as Dab struggled to stand upright and fell again as his feet slipped on the shiny fabric.

Once safely behind the glass cases, Dab bent down to lift a stack of leather books from a low shelf. He thought with longing of the black crocodile pocket secretary in the next display case and tried to decide whether he liked croc as much as alligator. Dab couldn't remember who had told him--maybe it was the

Antonio sales rep--that he could get him black market alligator if he wanted it.

Of course, you can't really compare those two skins. Alligator is exotic casual wear. Crocodile is more romantic--like patent leather, but classier.

"Don't kiss it, Dab." Susan stood at his elbow, grinning. Nothing about her really stood out. She was a slender girl and at 5'3, she was six inches taller than Dab. Her nose turned up, but not too much, and her eyes were--well, Dab wasn't sure what color they were. The only time she made herself noticeable was when she argued with Mildred about bullfights or made Mr. Lederman send some fur-lined gloves back to the manufacturer.

"They could be dog or cat!" She'd become hysterical. Lederman didn't want to listen to her, so he had Dab pack them up to ship back. The fur interiors were okay, but unlike the top quality of the glove's elegant leather exteriors, the rabbit fur fibers came out at the merest touch. They had blown up into the air from the ventilation draft and stuck in his nose.

Susan playfully snapped a plastic bag at him and threw it in the garbage can.

"Just kidding."

Dab headed to the back of the store, past the closed door of Lederman's office. He opened the back door of the store and swallowed a large mouthful of air. The shrinkage problems worried him, and Susan and the rest were too much extra stress.

He couldn't have been outside for more than five minutes, but when he came back into the stockroom, Dolores and Mike surprised him. The two of them were pressed together, her beige skirt up between their chests, his hands rolling firmly down her black tights.

Mike pushed Dolores back when he saw Dab, a silly grin stretching his elastic face. Dolores looked at Dab for an instant before pulling her skirt down and

arranging it. She disdainfully smoothed and then fluffed her hair so that it formed a glossy stole around her neck and upper back. Her black eyes stared past Dab as she strutted off. Dab tried to speak, but his mouth blew out too much air. Her hips brushed against him as she left.

After catching his breath, Dab raised his hands to knock on Lederman's door.

Mike shrugged. "He's out."

"Where?"

"Try Ed & Turk's. I don't know if he's there."

As Dab pulled his leather jacket off the coat rack, the hanger flipped up angrily and hit the opposite wall. He pushed his fists into the corners of the pockets to stop them from trembling.

When he sat down at Lederman's booth where the man sat bent over a cup of coffee and a calculator, he hadn't considered what reaction he expected. Dab hadn't even known he was going to do this.

"I-I-I'd like to give my notice, Mr. Lederman." Dab could barely hear his own voice.

Lederman looked up from under his red eyebrows. "If you're sure that's what you want, fine. I don't keep anybody here against their will."

"I-I'm sorry," Dab stammered, "to leave you without any notice." Lederman's lack of response felt like a blow to Dab's gut.

"Aaa, it doesn't matter. It's a slow time. I'm overstaffed. One of the girls in the office can mail you your last check if you like." Lederman drained his cup and started to rise. That's when he noticed the expression on Dab's face. "Why you leaving, anyway?"

Dab pictured the swing of Dolores' thick dark hair. He remembered her long, tan fingers on aniline ranch hide. He thought of Lederman's stubby finger poking the inventory sheets.

Lederman grabbed a Sweet 'n Low from the table with those same thick fingers and began twisting and ripping it as Dab struggled to speak. Throwing his head back, Lederman swigged the sugar substitute. He grunted, shook his head, and strode briskly out the door.

Dab sat at the booth until the waitress told him to order or leave. Dab didn't know what to ask for so he got up.

As he stepped out onto the street, the chilly wind beat his face and he pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his soft leather jacket. His apartment was dark when he got home; Dab had forgotten to raise the shades that morning.

Without taking his jacket off or turning on any lights, Dab went directly to the cowhide footlocker in front of the couch. He lifted off the glass top.

When he tenderly opened the tissue paper inside the trunk, the smells of the contents overcame him and Dab had to stop for a moment. Slowly, item by item, he lifted out the contents. He removed each one from its tissue wrapping and spread them around him in a circle. They surrounded him like little children-all with different personalities: the showy ostrich French purse, the manly belting leather trifold, an elegant black Spanish calf woman's handbag with a surprising red leather interior. Each item was a treasure in itself, unique and wonderful.

They were all small, very small items. Items that would not be missed readily.

Items that are easy to slip into a jacket pocket, a rolled-up newspaper. They were small, but they were Dab's. And Dab loved them.

Katie Moore Ibeji

I sent my partner out before me to clear the way into the waiting world, and listened, longing for Taiwo, who shares my soul, to cry-safety, all is well, hurry now, no dangers, Be born.

Together, we were born, but her voice never called me, and knowing there were dangers, I squirmed and rushed into the world.

Wishing my sister had been first to cry, I opened my lungs and mourned my Taiwo.

Iya screamed for Taiwo, youngest, but first born.

All my early days we would cry.

Her salty tears washed me, but I was alone in the world-a twin dead meant many dangers.

I faced, with half a soul, these dangers.

An ibeji was made for my Taiwo, a wooden doll to carry through the world-to bathe and feed when death is born.

It shared my basket when I would cry, my lost twin, dead half of me.

The Babalawo came to see me, to keep me safe from the dangers.

His rough hands made me cry.

Taiwo, Taiwo, Taiwo!

He drives the demons from the born, and I am alone in the world.

It is, unlike before, a quiet world without another me.

I grow, always missing the other born, keeping her ibeji safe from dangers.

When I die, my own twins will care for Taiwo, the twin without a cry.

She left me, half souled, in this world.

Taiwo, first born little sister, I cry for the dangers and death of being born.

Jeffrey H. Toney

The Quiet Raspberry Wormhole

Separated by time, distance and her blossoming into womanhood, evanescent shockingly bright mental flashes cast upon this night’s deep darkness revealed a way back to my little girl. Then two years old, consummate master of silly games, she laid on her back, tiny feet tracing circles, first fast, pausing, then faster, evading my awkward grasp as I cupped air, not speeding foot, my mock frustration quelled by glorious girl giggles.

Shrouded in 3 a.m.’s deep dreaming, vivid awakening, my lips remember, forming a quiet raspberry wormhole, sweet time travel, her bubbles of laughter already erupting before belly button-bound lips land.

Contributors

Carl Boon Carl Boon lives in Istanbul, where he directs the English prep school and teaches courses in literature at Yeni Yuzyil University. Recent or forthcoming poems appear in The Adirondack Review, The Tulane Review, Posit, and other magazines.

Luanne Castle Luanne Castle studied English and creative writing at the University of California, Riverside; Western Michigan University; and Stanford University.

Her prose and poetry have appeared in River Teeth, Lunch Ticket, The Review Review, and many other journals. Doll God, Luanne’s first collection of poetry, was published by Aldrich Press in 2015. She divides her time between California and Arizona, where she shares land with a herd of javelina.

Katie Moore Katie Moore is the mother of ferocious daughters and a willing slave to the written word. She is Founder/Editor of The Legendary and an Associate Editor for Night Train. For more info, samples, news, and publication credits, visit The Girl Circus atwww.thegirlcircus.com.

Anne Reingold Anne Reingold is a former literary agent and currently a freelance editor. She lives in New York City with her husband and two daughters.

James Seals James Seals earned his MFA in Fiction from Southern New Hampshire University. His stories have been published in Amoskeag Journal, Forge Journal, Rio Grande Review and others. He has also published an essay and numerous poems. James Seals’ stories “White, Like You” (’13) and an excerpt, “Turned His Eyes Away” (’14), from his novel American Value won SNHU’s graduate writing contest. SNHU’s MFA faculty awarded his masters’ thesis the Lynn H. Safford Book Prize.

Kevin Thomas Kevin Thomas is a writer/screenwriter living in Los Angeles. He has previously been published in The Boston Literary Magazine, and is pursuing an MFA at OTIS in Los Angeles. It never rains in LA. Visit his blog to see more.

Jeffrey H. Toney Dr. Toney has published scientific peer-reviewed articles, news media opinion pieces as well as short fiction stories. He serves as Provost and Vice President for Academic Affairs at Kean University.

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