RIND Issue 15

Rind literary magazine Issue 15 January 2022

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Rind Literary Magazine Issue 15 January 2022

rindliterarymagazine.com

All Works © Respective Authors, 2022

Cover Art By: Melani ciarrocchi

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Editor in Chief: Dylan gascon

Fiction Editors: Johnathan Etchart Jenny Lin Melinda Smith Stephen williams Shaymaa Mahmoud

Nonfiction Editors: Collette Curran Owen Torres William Ellars Anastasia Zamora

Poetry Editors: Shaymaa Mahmoud Sean hisaka Lisa Tate

Blog Manager: Dylan Gascon

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Contents Acknowledgements

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Contributors

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fiction: game/bob beach

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problems/Rachel workman

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let ratdust sing/Michael neis

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poetry: the commoner’s disease/joe sonnenblick

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STILL/ brian Koester

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George’s apocalypse/ john grey

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non-fiction: the gamemaster and the reluctant daugther/Luanne castle

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Acknowledgements Thank you to all of our contributors, past and present, for helping us get this thing moving. Thank you to the creative writing faculty of the University of California-Riverside, Mount San Antonio College, Rio Hondo College and Riverside Community College for your continued support of this magazine.

Rind is on the look out for original artwork and photography for our upcoming issues. If you or someone you know might be interested in contributing, send us an inquiry for more details.

Please support the San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival; find them at www.sgvlitfest.com. We’ll be there, and so should you.

Check out our listing on Duotrope. We’re also on Facebook and Twitter. Regular updates on RLM and other fun and interesting things can be found at our affiliated blog site: www.thegrovebyrind.wordpress.com. If you would like to contribute to Rind, send your manuscript to rindliterarymagazine@gmail.com.

Cheers!

–The Rind Staff

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GAME

by Bob Beach Hack watched a handful of birds buzz the stacks of the Whirlpool plant, a quarter mile away beyond Walmart and the city park. Buzzards and hawks, probably, mooching a free ride to the top on warm air from towers that belched steam twenty-four seven. Up and up until they escaped into the clouds. Why? No dinner up there. Maybe they liked the view.

Above the trees, the windowless grey corrugated walls of the plant stretched as far left and right as Hack could see from his porch. More poor grunts stamping and drilling and bending and bolting, in each shift, than the population of the whole damn town. A giant black hole, an accretion disk of homes and schools and businesses and churches for miles around, spiraling slowly around it toward eventual extinction, when cheap Chinese or Korean junk finally put it out of business. Sons and daughters sucked relentlessly into its depths and spit out forty years later, shriveled husks.

Hack’s knee was complaining despite the heat, and he stretched his left leg across the width of the porch swing. His bare right foot danced across the hot wood floor, keeping the swing moving in a pale imitation of a breeze.

“If this is what global warmin’s like, count me out.” He took off his glasses and scrubbed them on a nearly dry corner of his sweaty T-shirt. “Foggin my specs.”

“Man, you’ve had those stupid hornrims since you were a kid. When are you going to wise up and spring for a new pair? Something looks like it was made this century.” Dale Swolsky lay flat on his back on the porch floor, his head propped up on a brick, his dark blue Yankees cap covering his face, his thin cotton tank dark with sweat. God had set the midsummer sun on broil, then walked away and forgotten about it. Even the cars felt it, wheezing and gasping as they puttered past the house in low gear, parboiled drivers limp and spent. The lawns up and down the street were going brown and thatchy, except for Mrs. Halloran’s yard, which was mostly begonias with the sprinkler wobbling back and forth all day.

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“More like I need new eyes. No glasses gonna fix a retinal detachment.”

“That eye poke on the fumble against the Tigers?”

Hack grunted. “If it ain’t one damn thing, it’s another. Besides the eye, there’s the knee, the left elbow, the ankle and both shoulders. Just to mention the main ones.” And lately shortness of breath, which could be any damn thing and he didn’t want to know. Once he could label every ache and pain with a time and place—that touchdown run against Westwood, a cheap shot by the big forward from Valley High. A beanball from that lefty in the semi-finals back in ninety-six. Now there were just too many to count. And he was barely forty.

Sports. It took its toll. At least if you were any good. The more you put into it, the harder it kicked your ass. He had his spin on the carousel twenty-five years ago, and now the bills were coming due. But he wouldn’t change things, even now. There were too many good years, too many great moments he never wanted to part with. Knowing he was the best—even for a game or two, a play or two. Those movies in his head got him through long soul-sucking days at the plant and mercifully still filled his dreams with highlight reels.

It was a royal bitch to see your best days disappearing in the rear view mirror. But what the fuck, in this dump of a town, most people never had any good days at all to look back on. Or forward to. Just the plant looming over everything, a giant gray monster pumping out 20,000 washing machines a day. A whole, brand new fucking washing machine every four seconds. Who bought all those machines, anyway? Where did they go? His parents only had one machine their whole marriage, and he and Annie had theirs now for twenty years. Maybe somewhere out there, in big cities like Chicago or Philly, they leased washing machines like cars—three years and roll it over.

He shouldn’t complain. Relatively speaking, he was king of the boardwalk. Down at the Last Call they still remembered the records he set and once in a while his name appeared, a blast from the past, in the sports column. And now only 49,872 hours of stamping steel washing machine panels 8

before retirement. If he was still able to walk by then, maybe he’d take up golf. Or bridge.

“What can I say, Hack?” said Swolski. “You’re a walking pile of spent tissue. I ought to take you out back and bury you now, save everybody the cost of a funeral.”

Hack leaned back in the front porch swing. He was sure there was still an athlete’s body buried somewhere down there beneath a couple decades of soft living. But now a gut spilled awkwardly over his belt and a throbbing left leg stretched out across the length of the seat. Hack closed his eyes and rotated the empty beer can in his hand, trying to tease the last tiny thrill of coolness from it before the can reached ambient temperature, which he figured was about a hundred and thirty degrees.

“No shit,” said Hack. “Bury me anytime. Just don’t tell Annie where you laid me—she’ll be out there in ten minutes strippin’ the gold out of my teeth and rippin’ my pockets for spare change.”

“Man, you’re so far over the hill you couldn’t find it on a map.”

“My knees rattle when I walk and I get purple in the face when I climb the front steps. Seven damn steps and I gotta stop halfway to get a blow.”

“Big deal. I’m the one with the gimpy ticker. My arteries are so bad the doc told me to call Roto-Rooter next time and give him a break.”

“Double bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast ain’t no help, you know. Man, how can you lay on the floor like that? Don’t that hurt?”

“My back, you know that. Hasn’t been right since the Riverside game.”

“I remember. The little shit who clotheslined you on the layup. Still, you got what, eighteen that game?” And he’d had twenty-six. He remembered the turnaround jumper he nailed from the corner with three guys on him—left that fat Riverside coach with his mouth hanging open. And his date with Cloris, afterward.

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“Hey, at least get over here in the shade. Don’t want you havin’ a stroke on my porch. Don’t think my insurance covers it. Annie!”

A few seconds later a mop of curly red hair and a pale, freckled face appeared at the screen door. “What the hell you want? I’m doin’ laundry.”

“Beer me.” Hack held up his can and wiggled it.

“Beer you? Beer you? I’ll beer you all right. Pop you with a cold hard one right in your damn forehead.”

“Aw, c’mon, Annie, my knee’s on strike again.”

“Don’t look at me—I ain’t no scab.” The red hair disappeared back into the house, grumbling and snorting.

Hack turned back to Swolski. “She’s not at her best on laundry day.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Whaddaya think?”

“Five bucks says you’re making a trip to the fridge. Get me one while you’re there.”

Hack giggled. “Never hurts to try.” He stood and looked down the street. “Uh, oh. Here comes trouble.”

Swolski tipped back his cap and lifted his head.

“Look at that, Cap!” somebody shouted. “Two big fat possums crawled up on your porch and died right there.”

Two teenage boys, lean and tan in shorts and sneakers, pedaled their bikes to a stop in front of the house. Cap Hackman and Junior Swolski. Cap had a basketball under his arm. The next generation of jocks, bristling with the same confidence Hack had at that age. Couldn’t wait to rewrite the record books. And then what? The next generation of wage slaves grinding away in the plant? Be nice if they could get Cap off to college. Fat chance—like Hack, he wasn’t big on book learning. And why bust your balls for four years when you could collect a fat paycheck right out of the gate?

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“Who you calling fat, you little piss ant?” said Swolski. “I’m maybe only fifteen pounds over my playing weight. And that’s all muscle.” He sat up and spun to face the kids, throwing his legs off the edge of the porch.

“He’s right,” said Cap. “His head’s a lot bigger than his yearbook pictures.”

“Har de har har har,” said Hack. “You idiots aren’t seriously thinkin’ about hoops on a day like this? You’ll melt your sneakers just standin’ on the blacktop.”

“That’s the secret, old man,” said Junior. “You don’t just stand there, you keep moving. But maybe you forgot how—doesn’t look like you old coots moved more than an inch all morning.”

“Doin’ the twelve ounce curls is all,” said Cap. “Builds up their throat muscles.”

“Probably need it after all that chokin’ they did on the court last century,” said Junior.

“Least we got some muscles,” said Hack. “You skinny little twerps ain’t got one decent bicep between you. Tall brown toothpicks, probably have a hard time just gettin’ the ball up to the basket.”

“Not you, gunner.” said Junior. “School record for shots taken.”

“School record for shots missed, too,” added Cap. He whispered something to Junior and the two broke out in laughter.

“But top ten in points,” said Swolski. “And you bums know it, too!”

“Oooooooh!” The boys bugged their eyes and waggled their fingers.

“Sounds like somebody’s a little sensitive,” said Junior. He looked at Cap. “Would you believe these geezers actually had game back in the day? Would anybody?”

Game. They had game. They were young once, too, even if it did seem like a century ago— they ran the floor like cheetahs and soared above the basket like eagles. The thrill of floating above the rim, nine sweaty faces looking up at you with open mouths as you swept the ball off the board, the flash bulbs popping, the crowd on their feet and screaming.

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Cap laughed. “No way! These old farts can hardly roll over by themselves. Hey, you still have any of those peach crates you used for baskets? I could take one to history class for show and tell.”

“Did you ever meet James Naismith? Maybe get his autograph?” asked Junior. Cap snorted.

“Nice try,” said Swolsky, “but we’re not falling for it.” He lay back down, head on the brick, and pulled his cap over his face again.

“No way we’re gettin’ on a court in this heat,” said Hack. “Besides, my knee’s givin’ me hell.” He stood and opened the door. “Bud or Coors, Ski?” Cap looked at Junior. “You were right.” he muttered. “They really are getting old.” The two boys pushed out on their bikes.

“See you, losers,” said Junior. “We’re going over to the school.”

Hack watched their sons ride off down the street, vanishing in the heat waves rising from the concrete. Athletes already, their potential peeking through their adolescent awkwardness. They had the genes. Would they make the headlines? Pack away enough memories for the long winter ahead?

Swolski lifted his cap and looked up at Hack. A tiny spark flared in his eye and he lifted his eyebrows.

Hack rolled his eyes and sighed. “Sweet Jesus. Okay, you go on ahead, I’ll pop a few aspirin and get my sneakers. I s’pose somebody’s got to train these pups.”

End

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The Commoners Disease

By Joe Sonnenblick A riotous goings on, The brain and the body are not friends Talking to different handlers, Nearly violent, always calm.

I want to speak with the head honcho The sky is lit with spurting blood from hooded hoods gun Like Bellagio water fountain folly A beer in my right, my cock in my left This isn’t anywhere else This is encyclopedia Brooklyn-Tanica An owner to a renter A fish struggles for air after wanting to know the land.

I miss what it was that made me an outlaw Parlay my unhappiness with your quick to judge sentences, A struggle at 11:52AM While breathing in Wagner, Hearing the screams Dissecting the march Vilifying the cohorts.

You can hold the entire world in your hands, Still thinking of what someone said that time.

No one is immune, A beautiful day is one “Oh well” away.

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Problems

By Rachael Workman

The man was at work when she called and told him to come. With an air of feigned reluctance, he agreed.

She promised to be his fantasy and she was.

“There will be problems,” he warned.

“What kind of problems?”

He planned to work on the train but couldn’t concentrate; memories of the woman’s legs around his waist, the way she gasped. Thoughts of her occupied him almost constantly, with no regard for appropriate timing.

Erotic memories, the stickiest ones, intruded at the worst moments: playing with his kids, driving beside his wife, during business meetings. He thought of her standing before him, completely naked, her long hair draped across her shoulders, biting the edge of her thumb, staring into him. If he could manage his rogue imagination, he wouldn’t even be on this train.

You know why you’re so beautiful? He once asked her.

Why? He had just gotten a promotion, couldn’t afford to be distracted. The man risked everything he was not willing to lose. He had a family, a wife who would humiliate him before everyone he knew, his family, his colleagues; kids who would be disappointed, look at him with shame. Any potential problems would be his.

But he couldn’t afford not to accommodate her, either. He wanted to give her everything she wanted, but promised himself that he would never ask. It was obvious, anyway, and he refused to owe her.

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It’s your eyes, they’re so big, he’d told her.

She had begged him with her eyes.

On the train, a mother with her young son sat across from the man, who was haphazardly replying to emails in spite of his nagging imagination and anticipation. He constantly wrestled with the question of whom he was truly betraying; wondering if it was he who was the biggest victim. If he lost, if he made a single mistake, he would lose both women.

“Because I have to see you,” the woman had said.

Any other man would have refused the temptation of her invitation. If the other woman knew where he was really going, she could leave him, ruin his life.

“It’s a business trip,” he told the other woman. Trying to convince himself, he added, “It’s for business.”

The unfinished kind, that much was true.

“You work for a car company,” the other woman said. “Why are you taking the train?”

Her skin and her arms and the way her breathing gets heavier when I bring her to her edge.

He had to go to her. She asked him to.

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“Doesn’t that make you queasy?” the boy on the train asked, jarring the man out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“Reading. On the train. That makes me woozy,” the boy said.

“No.”

“I’m going to Philadelphia.” After a short pause, the boy explained: “To see my uncle.”

The train was for people who couldn’t afford self control. “Because of traffic,” he had told the other woman, “it’s just easier.”

He thought of the woman tracing his collarbone with her fingertip, like she always did, lying with her head on his shoulder. In a whisper, she once suggested he let go, lose himself, but he didn’t hear.

“Oh?” the man asked the boy.

“Yeah, he’s got cancer,” the boy said. The boy was small, scrawny, probably ten years old. He reminded the man of his own son, with his narrow body, spindly limbs, and dark, shiny hair curving over the side of his head. He wondered what his own son was doing right now. What he would think if he were sitting across from a man on a train visiting a woman that wasn’t his children’s mother? The boy held his hands in his lap, pinching his fingers over his knees, staring down, speaking under his breath.

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“Shh,” the mother gently scolded, while patting the boy’s leg and smiling apologetically at the man.

The man closed his laptop, smiling back at the mother, as if to say, “It’s ok.” It’s the distraction I need, he thought.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the man replied, genuinely.

“Yeah.” He looked into the man’s eyes. “It’s ok.”

“Edward,” said the mother. The boy smirked out of the corner of his mouth and looked out the window.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized.

“It’s ok.”

Looking out the window, the man watched sea gulls chasing the train, their pace falling behind as they soared over and under a breeze as if on an invisible roller coaster. He thought of the time she once told him to grow up and how much it excited him; no one had told him to grow up in twenty years. The other woman wouldn’t dare speak to him that way.

The boy stared at the man. “Where did you get those eyebrows?” he asked.

“I don’t know. From the wind, I guess.”

The mother smiled again, embarrassed, confused, and squeezed her son’s elbow, wordlessly

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signaling, “Edward, please.” The boy was silent until they reached Philadelphia, fidgeting occasionally.

The boy and the man made eye contact a few times, but never held it long. The boy always looked away first, like an accusation.

The man felt false confidence that he knew what he was doing, that he was safe, that there were no consequences, there were no stakes. He had convinced himself he wouldn’t get caught. But indeed, the stakes were high, and he feared he really was being reckless.

In Philadelphia, the boy and the mother got off the train. “Have a nice day,” she said, pulling her son’s hand behind her. The man smiled and nodded, letting his head drop back against the seat with a soft thud.

She must be home, getting ready, he thought. He imagined watching her feeding the dog, lighting a candle, putting on music, dropping her clothes on the bathroom floor, stepping into the shower.

In her shiny high-rise apartment in the city, the woman sprayed perfume on her neck and wrists, staring into her own eyes in the mirror.

Eventually it’ll all collapse, she thought. She never forgot the reason she left him behind in Tennessee. It was important to note what she left: everything.

She considered asking the man where he was, but ruled against it. He thought about letting her know he had just left the Philadelphia train station, but he, too, restrained himself from the unsolicited update.

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It was only established a few weeks ago that he would come see her. They never spoke of it again. He knew he would be on that train. She knew he wouldn’t miss it.

There was that time back in Tennessee, when she got in his car and he put his whole body over her. The sound of her high heels clunking when they hit the floorboard the moment she grabbed him; he’d never known her to be so aggressive. She confided she was in love with him that night and he told her he was too, even if it felt like a lie coming from both of their mouths. All of it was a surprise. She never said it again, but he felt it lurk beneath their relationship like a nagging rash left untreated.

“You can’t meet me at my house,” she told him.

She wasn’t lonely. She didn’t miss him.

She didn’t have to. Because he was coming, and he always would as long as she asked.

“Meet me at Gallery Place,” she had instructed.

That meant he’d have to drive to the commuter train station and park, take the local to Grand Central, switch trains again at Penn Station to Union Station and then catch the Metro to Chinatown. “Ok.”

“Three weeks from tonight,” she told him.

“Ok,” he said.

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Somewhere near Baltimore, he thought: What if she forgot? He’d be stranded, alone. The panic didn’t hit until he left the comfort of the first train and the boy and his mother. Of course, he wouldn’t be stranded, not really. He had a hotel room booked on the auspices of a dealership visit in Virginia the next day, his job thought he was working. But if she weren’t there? He’d feel purposeless and alone, his family some three hundred miles away waiting for him to come home and be the father, the husband.

But he was committed, he was in this. He would take the risk, yet again.

She’ll be there, he thought, reassuring himself, imagining her wearing black, her straight red hair covering her shoulders like a curtain.

In her apartment, the woman was putting on mascara, staring at her eye an inch from the mirror. What if he doesn’t come this time? He has to.

The dog stood from his crumpled position on the floor beside her feet and left the room. “We are adults,” she said aloud, looking over her shoulder after the dog.

It was 7:49. The Metro was scheduled to stop at Gallery Place at 8:12. She was running out of time to catch her train. What he didn’t know is they would be on the same train for three stops, separated by one car. Just 50 feet.

Stepping in the car, she told herself: this is what it feels like to be traveling at his speed. To watch the scenery of his life fly past him, as if she were him for a moment.

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Gallery Place. This was where she told him to get off. Stepping onto the platform, he looked up at the coffered cement arch of the subway tunnel above. It looked like a futuristic architectural experiment from the 50’s. The comfort of time, the consistency of their patterns reassured him that she would be here because she had never abandoned him. And if she did, maybe, somehow, it would be for the best.

He had never been to this station. Not sure where to go from here, he looked to his right and there she was. She stood a train car’s length beside him, hands in her coat pockets, facing straight ahead while people stepped around her coming out of the train car like the tide washing around rocks. He hesitated, absorbing the image. She was here. When she turned her face left and made eye contact, he sensed finality in this moment. He knew this was probably over.

Anyway, he wouldn’t get back on the train.

As he watched her watching him, the man noticed her legs, her straight shoulders framing her body, her hands casually resting in her pockets, her big eyes staring at him. Despite the sharp smirk in the January air, he couldn’t slough off feeling jealous of the scarf tight around her neck. Why do you get to have her?

He wondered.

The man still had time to get back on the train before the doors slammed shut, time to turn around, to go back, to run. Her feet were planted in the platform like roots. He mimicked her resolve.

He can still run, she told herself, knowing he wouldn’t.

He still had time.

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He thought about what the other woman was doing, loading dishes in the dishwasher, his kids watching TV, while he was in D.C. putting it all on the line. His family stood to be the innocent collateral damage, oblivious to what was being risked on their behalf. Still, he let the train doors shut to whizz forward without him just for one more night with the woman.

Be gentle, the woman pleaded wordlessly from the platform. She thought about the time she cried all the way to Annapolis from the airport after she left Tennessee for good. She claimed this territory now and he felt the shift, subtle, but not imperceptible in her resolute stance.

He took a step towards her. She smiled. He kept walking until he was just one short step from embracing her body.

She kept her hands in her pocket.

“Hi.”

Hi.

At the restaurant, the hostess asked how many, and while the man said, “The bar is fine,” the woman interrupted and said, “Two, please.” The hostess hesitated, shifting her eyes back and forth between the man and the woman, and the woman repeated: two. “Right this way,” the hostess said. They were seated at a table in the corner of two banquets, where they sat close on red vinyl cushions.

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The restaurant was dimly lit with an amber glow. Like a typical French bistro in DC, it was decorated with dark wood walls, brass accents, and red seating. It was at once romantic and the perfect venue for a business dinner.

The man watched her pull her scarf out of the knot around her throat and her coat sleeves from her arms.

He wanted her to keep going, imagining her removing layer after layer, sliding her knee across his lap and climbing onto him right there at the table.

“I’ll have a Cabernet,” she said to the server who approached quietly, interrupting his fantasy. The man ordered a vodka rocks, and she smiled. It seemed like everything had changed, except nothing really had. All the surface details, the jobs, companies, the locations, all of the important life elements, all of it was inconsequential. Nothing had changed.

Not her wine, not his vodka. Not her affection, not his infatuation.

Putting his hand on her forearm, he said, “I’m glad you met me tonight.”

Sipping her wine, she raised an eyebrow to deflect the thoughts she feared were spread across her face.

“I have someone new,” she said, almost an announcement.

He paused and muttered something incoherent. Really? Or, I’m sure, or, Oh?

“It’s almost too late for you.”

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He couldn’t wait to bury his face between her legs, taste her, make her forget about everything she left, everything she wanted to leave him for. She may have someone new, but she was with him for one more night. One more night, he got to live in his fantasy.

Stroking her arm, he told her how much he missed her, putting his other hand on her lap. She was wearing a short dress and her nylons shifted easily across her skin. Her legs were crossed towards him, which excited him as he slid his fingertips between her thighs.

The woman put her hand on his and replaced it to her knee.

Like everything else, this was just part of the game.

Let’s go someplace, he had said.

Where? She had asked.

I don’t know, it’s Tennessee, anywhere we want.

She had smiled: Let’s go.

After dinner, the woman hugged his arm as they walked down the sidewalk in the cold, chatting and laughing; making fun of mutual acquaintances from past lives.

“Where do you want to go?” He asked.

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“I don’t know.”

After a block, the man pulled his arm from hers: fast and startling. He pushed her body against the building beside them with the force of his chest, his racing heart, his fleeting time. He stared into her eyes as if asking for permission, which she granted with her mouth on his, welcoming his fervent kiss, his tongue inside her mouth. She quickly dissolved into him, despite the shockingly cold brick of the building against her back. He remembered her rhythm against him even through the layers of their coats.

“Can we go home?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what you’re doing this time?” She asked after a pause.

“Yes,” he lied.

“I’m afraid you do.”

In the morning, she stood in the shower facing into the water, curtain open. The man stood at the sink, studying his face in the mirror, wondering aloud if he should bother to shave.

“What do people say?” She asked

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“What do you mean?”

“Does anyone ask about me still?”

“Who?”

“Anyone. They all knew.”

“No one knew,” he said.

“You don’t think anyone noticed? The lunches, the happy hours, the calls to my desk, the friendly visits to my floor, the emails? And then when everything suddenly stopped? Everyone noticed.”

The man walked to the shower, gently grabbing her bottom and slipped a finger into her between her legs.

She tensed reflexively, though the intrusion was welcome. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled and said, “You didn’t keep it to yourself.”

Lose yourself with me, she had whispered.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, turning off the water and wrapping a towel around her shoulders. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

With just his mouth on hers’, he led her backwards, to the bed in his hotel room, lowering his body over her, into her.

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I can feel you everywhere, she had said with just her breath.

“You never could sleep when I knew you,” she said.

“You still know me.”

“This is the last time for us.”

Lying on her back, holding the covers at her hips, she stared at the snow slowly drifting outside. He touched her breast, and she turned her face to him, searching his eyes, his cleft chin, his angular lips. She couldn’t believe she was staring at him in person, like they hadn’t lost a single day.

And he was just a man.

“I was afraid of that,” he said as he turned towards her, his right knee between hers, kissing her throat, suddenly inside her again. He was always in her.

Matching his rhythm with her hips, her head tilted back, she repeated his name, and gripped his biceps hard enough to bruise his skin. They both had places to be.

I won’t ask for you until I can let you go, she had told him.

She meant it. They were both falling.

I can’t finish what we started, he had warned her.

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“I have to go,” she said getting out of bed.

“Why?” he asked.

“The dog,” she said, slipping her dress on. She turned and looked at him.

“Ok.”

“I’ll forget you one day,” she said.

The man looked at the woman.

“I have a family,” he told her.

“I never forgot that,” she said. “Did you?”

No, he had said.

“I’ll call you later?” he asked, unsure.

“Why,” she said sitting beside him on the bed to put her stockings on.

“I always do.”

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She smiled and touched his face. “Goodbye.”

He could still smell her perfume on the sheets as she walked out of the room.

Unlike the other lovers, the occasional business trip fling, she was a part of him, and he planned to hold onto it forever if that’s the best he could get.

The door clicked behind her as she left and the man turned over, pulling the sheets to his face to keep her close for one more second.

As the woman stepped off the elevator and out of the hotel, her feet back on the earth, cold air blasted her face like a punch, knocking the wind from her lungs. She felt weightless, invigorated, awake. She looked forward to getting home to her dog, letting him know: “I did it.” He would approve by licking her face and tapping his front paws. She had no one to answer to. She had no stakes in this.

But It wasn’t over for him in every way; not in the impenetrable bond their bodies would always carry. He had lost her after all, a loss he could not share with his wife at home, a loss he would lament alone as it colonized his muscles, his bones heavy with grief. The problems were his.

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Still

By Brian Koester A few small falling snowflakes still mean dreams come true I refuse to be cold Warm dry dissonances fall and cover my skin almost too softly to feel I refuse to die

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The Gamemaster and the Reluctant Daughter

By Luanne Castle

Once my father knew he was dying, he began holding court at the nursing home, delighting in the attention. As if each of his last days were his birthday, he begged, cajoled, or demanded each guest play a game with him.

But the challenges were new. Because we played on the adjustable bed table, when Dad got excited over an exceptional hand, he moved so abruptly that the plastic oxygen tube unclamped from his nose. I gestured for him to push in the clip, but had to direct it for him.

When I slammed my cards down in frustration, the table rolled toward my father who startled.

I’d been avoiding Dad’s pale, drawn face. His head appeared to have grown smaller with illness, and perhaps by contrast, his ears—one of them with a raggedy edge—now stuck straight out like flags in a veteran’s cemetery.

I couldn’t remember a time that games weren’t part of life with my father. When I was little, Dad took me along to his best friend’s house. They holed up in the study, slouched over the chess board, while I played The Barbie Game with the friend’s daughter. She was an arrogant two years older, and for some reason I always ended up dating red-haired Poindexter, while she went steady with Ken. As the men emerged from the study, I could tell by the expression on Dad’s face that he had lost, but he wasn’t about to give up on the only game he didn’t regularly win. We always went back the following week.

I wasn’t going to give up either. By seven I was playing the box game Password with my parents. By eight I was a Monopoly regular.

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It was over the Monopoly board in the living room that I asked my father if he and our neighbor knew each other in the war. The only war I knew about was the Korean War, Dad’s war.

“No, we weren’t even in the same branch. I was Army; he was Navy,” Dad said. He grabbed a handful of candy corn from the bowl Mom put out.

“Were you a hero?” I said, examining Dad’s expression as he peered down his aquiline nose at the real estate cards spread out in front of him. He pushed his graying pompadour back and looked up at me.

“I don’t know any heroes,” he said.

“Oh. Did you know any spies? Any Communists?”

“None of those, either.”

Dad saw I was disappointed. “But one night, when I was conked out in my sleeping bag—and it was so cold that my nose—“ “Froze into a Popsicle,” I said.

“Yes, froze into a Popsicle and a Korean soldier snuck up on me,” Dad continued his story for the first time. “He creeped right up beside me while I was asleep. I didn’t know he was there. And he bit”—Dad peeled his lips back from his gums and snapped his teeth—“off my ear.”

“What! Really?” I peered at Dad’s ear.

“No, it’s the other one,” he said. I hadn’t noticed anything unusual, but when I drew right up to the ear itself I saw that the outside fold of his ear was uneven. “Too bad it can’t grow back like a starfish leg.”

Suddenly my mother was standing in the doorway, the laundry basket resting against her hip.

“Really, Rudy. “ “Really, Mom!” 34

Mom shook her head. “Really,” she said as she walked down the hallway to the bedrooms.

As I turned back to the board, I noticed Dad had just placed a hotel on Park Place. Accusation blared from my eyes. He had the audacity to wink.

My father bought his first commercial property on a land contract and a smile, no money down. Then he bought another and another. It seemed natural that he would always win at the board game of Monopoly when it reflected what he did with actual real property.

As soon as Dad began to pull ahead in a game, I scowled. “You’re a big fat cheater!” At every game, sooner or later, I accused him of cheating. His shit-eating grin never divulged if he had cheated or if he thought the accusation was funny.

Words troubled my father. Maybe it was a learning disability, maybe it was emotional. He confused surnames and remembered events wrong. If he had been chained in a dungeon until he came up with the correct spelling, Dad couldn’t have answered. Nonetheless, he always won at Scrabble.

He memorized all the legal two letter words. For longer ones, he psyched out his opponents so that he would know if the word was spelled right or not without having to lose a turn.

When Dad made a mistake he couldn’t blame on somebody else, he’d smirk and say, “Jack of all trades, master of none.” But we called him The Gamemaster, knowing he either excelled or kept trying, as he had with chess.

He didn’t have to worry about any of his childhood failures when he was playing a game. He was no longer a lousy student, the fatherless son of a poor and uneducated woman, a screw-up, a troublemaking kid. Instead, he could use what he was best at--trickery, intimidation, and sheer bravado—and forge a success and a quick jolt of adrenaline.

When I entered my teen years, Dad and I were at almost constant odds. He was particularly strict with me, the older child and only daughter, and I was resentful. All those years my father had refused to discuss the man who had abandoned his mother and their children. The subject was 35

closed to me. Of course, for my father, the subject was anything but closed. He was suspicious and overprotective because he wanted my life to be different from that of his mother. I didn’t realize any of this, so I couldn’t understand why he picked on me, and I grew to despise my father.

When he asked to play games, I delighted in saying no, even if I triggered a shouting fit or caused him to storm off and hammer nails. After school and on weekends, I stayed in my bedroom or hung out with friends, spending as little time as possible with my father.

Even as an adult, I didn’t want to give in to him too often. How many times did he beg me to play games? Sometimes I acquiesced, either wanting to play or wanting to keep Dad happy so he wouldn’t pout as he floundered about, not knowing what to do with himself. Darkness enveloped the whole family if Dad was unhappy. Even my children avoided Grandpa when the blackness inside him grew.

Eventually, Dad began to slow a bit. The first hint was when he and my 11-year-old daughter played a game of Monopoly that lasted for three days. I was able to film the ultimate blow to Grandpa when he was bested by someone sixty years younger. My father insisted that I had helped her, and that’s why she won. I wasn’t sure if he was saying she cheated or if he saw the game as two against one.

After years of brandishing his mastery over bridge, pinochle, and board games, Dad settled on a game called carbles, a portmanteau word combining cards and marbles. Out of a thick maple slab, he crafted the board. With a deck of cards and solid color marbles, the players follow rules akin to Sorry or Parcheesi. My father painted the correct colors in little divets on the board, but they appeared splashed from a high bowl, either because of his macular degeneration or hand tremor.

He made a board for me, too, so that when he came to visit I could play with him. We only played a few times because we lived two thousand miles from each other.

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When my father became ill, I visited him and saw that he had trouble focusing on the carbles board and the card games. He no longer had the ability to follow a thought through to the end. He tried, but to distract him from his resulting distress, I would wheel Dad for a spin down the hall or announce it was time to measure his oxygen level with the pulse oximeter.

My mother drove Dad and his friends in her golf cart in the woods behind the nursing home.

He had them push his wheelchair to the café for Wednesday Happy Hour. One friend, another veteran, visited several times a week to transcribe my father’s war experiences. Dad demanded to be buried in the Veteran’s Cemetery with military honors, rather than the family plot in our hometown.

As time went on, he talked more and more about the war. He was no longer the king of downtown real estate, but a U.S. veteran.

Dad’s face brightened every time a new face appeared in the doorway of his room—someone else to give him their complete attention, if only for forty-five minutes. He almost seemed happy in those last weeks.

One afternoon, my niece and her fiancé came to visit. Dad sat in the chair next to his bed, repeatedly pushing the plastic tubing across his cheek. He couldn’t quite catch the ear. My niece had brought Grandpa a new game, and I could see the expectant excitement lighting her face.

As she handed him the game, a shadow passed across my father’s face. He would never play again. All the visits and attention he was getting couldn’t give him back the satisfaction of the game.

Now that he’s gone, my carbles board, propped against the wall, draws my eyes whenever I enter the room. The maple is raw, unfinished, and the crooked drops of red and blue from Dad’s tremulous paintbrush unsettle me. I’ll move it where I don’t see it so often. After all, I don’t have to play games any longer.

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GEORGE’S APOCALYPSE

By John Grey Life is an accumulation of small, annoying things.

George wishes that tap would stop leaking of its own accord.

Besides which, the toaster isn’t working.

Rain fills the bucket below where the roof leaks.

George is praying urgently to God. The omens are everywhere.

He’s sure the apocalypse can’t involve just him.

Yes, all this has to end sometime.

But he’d hate to have to take it personally.

The neighborhood kids won’t let him off so easily.

Their BB guns seem to know when he’s late on refilling his medication.

Everything’s a mess.

If only God would intervene on a small scale.

Okay so not apocalypse. Though who knows.

The end of the world is more likely to sneak up on everybody rather than burst in like Rambo brandishing all kinds of weapons.

But there’s a whole lot of previews to be taken in before the real thing.

Like George’s mother humming something by the Rolling Stones.

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Or his daughter dating someone with a lip ring.

That kid could even be the Antichrist, though he works in the kitchen of a fast food joint.

But there’s those three buddies of his he always hangs with.

What’s to say they’re not the four horsemen awaiting the right moment, the right mount.

Outside, the kids are shooting birds.

And an old man is drunk and desperate, claims the FBI are on his tail.

A storm rising in the west. Bullets firing, old man screaming.

And the phone rings. A short conversation ensues.

It’s the last thing his wife wants to hear. Her tears are as heavy as bowling balls. No wonder she can’t stand up straight.

And the floors are filthy. TVs on the blink.

And greasy hair in curlers will never be the style.

George is not yet ready to float up with the angels of sizzle in the fires of hell.

But it’ll just happen, surely.

And to him most of all.

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40

Letting Ratdust Sing

When my father woke me, I had no idea where I was. It was still dark. Waking at first light on Todos Santos had always been good enough for arriving at my teaching job on time.

My father was giving the tenor of our singing group a ride to the airport. Colby was going to England, or at least trying to. He had a birth certificate only. Risky. But getting out was always risky.

Colby did not want anyone to know. No one ever did. If he failed, it would be all the more humiliating when his attempt became public. Colby’s aim was to simply disappear and allow people to find out after he was safely ensconced with family in London.

He was waiting for my dad and me when we arrived at his house. I helped load the bags while dad stayed at the wheel, engine running. We were out of Marigon long before the daybreak and saw no one.

At the airport he waved to us before disappearing. Two days later we heard that he had arrived successfully. I never saw Colby again.

All the members of my church singing group were teachers. Sandra Elahi, Debra Charles, and Imore Lewis were from the elementary school. Leandra Filmore and Owen Johnson taught those who had failed the common entrance exam and could not go to secondary school. Catherine Henry and I were secondary school teachers.

Miss Henry wore clingy single-hue dresses, often with a sash around her waist, underscoring her form. She was a dougla; a mix of African and East Indian descent. And her face, like that of a typical dougla, was a combination of almond-shaped eyes, puffy cheeks, and full lips. When she walked, her hips gave the effortless sway of a coconut palm in the sea breeze. She taught English Literature with an organized confidence and had assembled a core of about ten girls who hung on her every word.

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Like my father, I wore custom-tailored pin-striped trousers with pastel shirt jacks which hung loose around my torso. My father always assured me that one day I would fill in the belly area of my clothes.

I taught Spanish my own way, disgusted with the Ministry of Education’s suggestions for books and methods. Xavier Secondary School’s Spanish program was an ongoing problem until I turned it around, and I had six strong scholars in my form five with excellent chances in the international exams.

The form fives were the good part of our jobs. The awful part was most of the other classes. Just about everyone on the staff routinely failed half the students. That was not a surprise, given the semesters of untouched homework, fruitless drilling and brazen defiance. Miss Henry and I laughed at the idea that banging our heads on the school walls would help hold the attention of our students and might be better for our health.

We were the junior-most teachers, so we did not get the desk spaces around the wall of the staff room. Instead, we shared the small table at its center.

In our singing group I was supposed to play the electronic keyboard, but I was not particularly good.

We often had no current anyway, so I did not have to worry about playing. Sandra was one of the best guitarists on the island. She played the introductions by herself, and then Imore and I would come in with our own instruments.

It was the singing group that got me involved with an old Todos Santian named Milo Matheson.

I had heard about Milo’s accomplishments before he left for Brooklyn. He was a track star for Xavier. People still remembered his showdown with Chester Gibbs in the All Secondary 100 Meter dash, how Milo narrowly lost. The race was contested, but Chester was from Todos Santos Secondary, in the capital. The officials had to find that he won.

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I never understood, growing up, how Milo was always cast as a loser in this story. As I grew older, I became more and more appalled at what the villagers said about him.

In track I had been a distance runner, but I admired the sprinters. My favorite place to watch them was from the other side of the football pitch, where I could see how they flew across the track, their feet barely touching the ground. I could never run the way they did. In the 1600 meters I finished about 20 seconds behind the leaders. After that I stopped competing for good.

When Milo returned from Brooklyn, he was not the powerful athlete I had heard of; he had become slight and stoop-shouldered, and never seemed to want to stand any taller than what was necessary.

He wore sunglasses that covered half his face. When he wandered up and down the main street of Marigon, his feet would shoot out in front, and the rest would follow, as if his body did not want to commit anything to forward progress. It was as if some unseen force was pulling him along.

He had not been in the States for more than 15 years or so. And when he returned it was just him, along with rumors of a girlfriend and a couple of children back in Brooklyn.

Milo’s house was away from the main road, so no one could easily see it. It was a simple, old, prefabricated house; one of the houses the Canadians brought after Hurricane Janet, so we called them Janet houses. It was not the typical big house that people usually built when they came back from the States.

Marigon had three rum shops. You could find Milo at any one of them, starting early in the morning, and he would yell. When the rum shops closed, he would yell from the street in front of his house.

Yelling into the sky.

“Jackass! Jackass! You tink you so smart! Jackass! You tink you have everyting! Well, you don’ have nuttin’. I do all dis work for you. You ungrateful! I killin’ you ass! You see. You see! Some day. Jackass!”

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Sometimes the Marigon rum shops would refuse to sell him anything. It made no difference. He would go to Greenswalk, the next town up. He would buy his rum there, and then come back down to do his yelling.

Some people called him “Jackass,” simply because he said it so much.

But most of the folk in Marigon called him “Ratdust,” remembering how he started talking some foolishness about spreading dust from local spices in his house to ward off rats.

Sometimes, after wearing himself out, children would run around Milo, throwing stones and yelling “Ratdust! Ratdust!” He would sit on the ground, in a stupor. If he stirred or got up, they would run away, laughing and screaming.

Milo could be out yelling at any time, day or night, and then he would see me. He would stop and say “Oh, hi Richard.” Then he would return to his yelling and cursing. That was nice of him. Most of the Marigon folk called me by my childhood nickname “Wichie.”

So, I was not completely surprised when Milo approached me to say he wanted to join our singing group.

“I talk to dem about it,” I said.

I could not come up with an elegant way to announce his wish, so I spat out my words at the beginning of our next rehearsal.

“Milo want to join we singin’ group.”

Sandra and Debra looked like they were holding their breath. Owen flashed a huge smile. Imore tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

“Ratdust want to sing? Wit we?”

“Don’ call he Ratdust!”

“Will he take off he big sunglasses?”

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“Will he bathe?”

“When deh last time he in church?”

For Debra, the oldest among us, there could be no argument: “He one of we.”

“Huh?” “He in deh chillen’s choir, 40 years ago wit Mr. Pitt.”

“Debra, everyone in deh chillen’s choir, 40 years ago, wit Mr. Pitt.”

“But Rat—Milo was different. When deh pastor vex the choir and dey all leave, Milo stay. He come back deh very next Sunday, wit he guitar—and for deh next year, he sing all deh music for deh Mass all by he-self—until deh Irish volunteers come. No one in deh old choir would have nuttin’ to do wit him. Den he leave to join he uncle in deh States.”

Sandra finally said the only thing she could have said. “Den we must let he in.”

I was appointed to tell him the news. I made it clear there would be no drinking rum around rehearsals or Mass.

We told Fr. Michael, of course. He was an Irish missionary priest. He alternated between thinking that it was all wonderful, or, that it was funny.

The next Thursday evening at 7:00, Milo was waiting in the front pew. His mind was clear as the Caribbean sky in dry season. He knew all the songs, and even did a descant for “We Come before You, Lord.”

“We have a new tenor,” I said to Miss Henry before she boarded the late bus to Greenswalk.

That Sunday, a lot of people came for Mass. They wanted to see if Ratdust would show up and sing.

He did not disappoint. His slacks hung on loose, and his shirt was wrinkled. He took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of milky eyes. His eyebrows, set under a flat forehead, were all but worn away. His voice was so clear that it did not fit with his appearance, and with confidence he sang out 45

the descant of “We Come before You, Lord.”

I handed him a missalette, opened to the page that showed what the faithful were supposed to say.

Milo took the missalette but remained mute. He did not go up for communion.

The following Thursday evening he did not come to rehearsal. The group talked about it.

“Should we let he sing wit we dis Sunday?”

“It we rule dat you must do rehearsal to sing wit we for Mass.”

“Yea, but we don’ do dat rule, do we? It not fair to make he pay.”

“All right den,” said Sandra. “If he come, he come. I not going to stop he from singing.”

Milo was up until well past midnight that Saturday. I could hear him. We did not see him for Mass the following morning.

He was yelling the following day too, a mournful noise, working its way down the street, up the hills and through open doors. It settled in ears like the buzz of a fly on a window. When I went out at dusk, I saw him. He was sitting on the culvert in front of his house as I walked by.

“Richard,” Milo croaked. He held out his hand, arm swaying and fingers extended. I went to him and took his hand. The smell of rum enveloped us both as he spoke.

“I sorry. I still want to sing. I goin’ to hell.”

“Don’ worry about it, Milo. We figure out something.”

“I don’ know. I don’ know. I can’ do nuttin’ right. I sorry. I goin’ to hell. I so sorry. Will you tell dem I sorry? Will you tell dem?”

Milo was still holding onto my hand.

“I tell dem, Milo.”

“Please tell dem. I goin’ to hell. Nuttin’ can save me. I goin’ to hell.”

“We talk about it later, Milo. When you better.”

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I finally managed to get my hand back.

“We talk about it, Milo. Don’ worry.”

“I goin’ to hell. I know. Tell dem I sorry. Is no hope for me.”

When I left him, Milo was stooped low on the culvert, head in his hands, shaking.

I branched off to the bush path, just to get away from the road.

The bush path re-joined the main road by Jerome’s shop and Selfarlie bridge. There I sat down with Jukes and Ajay, whom I had known since primary. We would watch the people and cars go by.

Ajay was lying down on the bridge’s side wall. He propped himself up on his elbows when he saw me. “You let Ratdust sing wit you still?”

“I don’ know.”

Jukes was tossing little stones into the river. “He bawling all day about last Sunday. He say deh choir all hate he now. How he goin’ to hell. He bawling all day.”

“Well. I don’ know.” I said.

Two blue Hondas passed by, heading south. We knew they were tourist cars, rented out from the capital. They crossed the bridge and headed to the Coast Road, the one that had been washed out for years.

“Dey be back soon,” said Jukes.

“You tink dey figure out dey must take deh Old Hill Road?” asked Ajay.

“Dey gonna have to,” I said. “Or else dey must go back all deh way ‘round the island to get back to deh capital.”

“Dey should aks someone.”

“Dose Americans. Dey don’ talk to nobody.”

“Dey not all dat way.”

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“Yes. Dey all dat way.”

“Dey be back soon.”

The two Hondas came back. Ajay got up, walked off the bridge and looked at the sea. Jukes stood close to the road and watched the two cars coming.

The first car slowed down as it approached. It stopped when it reached our side and idled for minute.

I sat down on the end of the bridge wall. Then the driver-side window glided open with a highpitched whine A white man was inside, looking at us. He spoke with a brazen American inflection, flat as a football pitch, hard as the bough of a cottonwood tree.

“Hey. You know if there’s a way to the capital from here? That road down there is gone.”

Jukes nodded. “Yeah mon. You kin pass. Take deh Hill Road.”

The American’s eyebrows creased and met together at the top of his face. His upper lip puckered up.

“Huh? What did you say?”

I intervened with my classroom English.

“He said you can get to the capital using the Old Hill Road. You took the Coast Road which is washed out. Go to the left at the gap instead of going straight. The Old Hill Road is still good.”

The American turned his full attention to me. “Oh. Okay. Just go left at the intersection?”

“Yes.” “Okay, Thanks. Thanks a lot.” He started closing his window. Then he stopped and opened it again.

“Hey. And another thing…”

“What?”

“Is there some trouble on this island? We’ve noticed a lot of people walking around in the street.

What are they doing? Is there some kind of trouble?”

“No, No,” I said. “No trouble. People are just visiting with their friends. No trouble at all.”

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“Okay, Thanks.”

At that moment, a woman’s voice interrupted from inside the car. I could not see her. “By the way— your country is sooo beautiful. I wish we could live here.”

The window closed. The two cars turned around, crossed the bridge and this time they turned left at the Old Hill Road.

Ajay duplicated the woman’s pitch and inflection. “By the way—your country is sooo beautiful. I wish we could live here.”

“She just bein’ nice, Ajay,” I said.

“Dem Americans don’ nice,” he said.

For the rest of the night, I wondered what Americans were really like.

Milo did not come the following Thursday. Miss Henry was the first to talk about him as we finished rehearsal.

“We should help Milo, nuh?”

“When he not drunk, he can be nice.”

“But he always drunk.”

“We could take he first ting Sunday morning and make he shower, shave and put on some nice clothes,” I said.

“So dat what we doing? We making he a project?”

No one said anything. The squeaking of the frogs in the bush floated into the church. A minibus passed in front, its unmuffled engine noise killing all conversation.

“Why not?” said Miss Henry, and I started to like the idea of turning Ratdust into a project.

“I can help he get started,” I said. “But I don’ want to do it alone.”

“I help you,” said Miss Henry.

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That night, Milo was out yelling in front of his house.

“Jackass! Jackass! You tink you so smart! You don’ know nuttin’! Nuttin’! An’ I doin’ no more work for you! You ungrateful! Jackass!”

I walked to the middle of the street so he could see me. “Hi Milo.”

He stopped yelling and turned to me. “Oh. Hi, Richard.”

“Milo. We countin’ on you to help we sing. So, you should go in bed right now. Get some rest so you can help we.”

“Right oh right. I go.”

He carefully picked his way down the narrow path to his house.

At 8:00 the next morning, Miss Henry and I met at the section of road just above where Milo lived.

She led the way down his path. She wore a trim yellow dress that reached down to her knees. Her sandals had thin leather soles that made a crisp flap as she walked.

The shutters of his house were nailed shut. It looked like none of the boards on the walls had ever been repainted since its construction in 1955, and some boards were missing altogether. A piece of canvas served as a door. I called out: “Morning Milo. You all right?”

Miss Henry immediately picked up from where I left off, her lovely alto voice piercing the morning air. “Morning morning Milo!” How are you?”

We heard a groan. I slipped through the canvas and entered with Miss Henry right behind me.

The smell of rum, urine and rotting meat filled my nose. In the darkness we could discern the scraped-out tins of corned beef and baked beans that lay piled up against the bare walls, along with crumpled packs of Digestive biscuits and empty bottles. A worn dresser, missing a drawer and topped with a cracked mirror, stood on the left. A small wooden table with a broken leg was propped up against the far wall, lopsided, as if it had taken too much rum. Beside the table was an oven,

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colored in uneven shades of brown and gray. Its gas control knobs were all broken off. On top of the stove’s burners sat another stove—a kerosene one. The walls and ceiling by the stoves were coated with soot. On the opposite side of the ceiling, I saw what looked like hanging pieces of black bark. Then I figured out they were slumbering bats. The house had no floor. Instead, Miss Henry and I hobbled on a bed of smooth, round rocks. Milo lay on a mattress bundled up on the side of his Janet house.

I felt embarrassed that Miss Henry should be seeing this, but she gave no sign of shock.

“Come on Milo,” I said. “It only rum. And you go in bed early. You can do it.”

We helped Milo up. Miss Henry had brought towels and soap. We walked with him down the street to the public shower. Once he started to bathe, he moved about more easily. He did not say much, as if he had exhausted all his words the previous night.

Miss Henry had picked clothes out of his dresser, which I passed them along to Milo. He did have some nice clothes, even if they were old.

After he dressed, we went back to his house. Miss Henry sat down on the only stool there, balanced on the rocky floor. I sat on the mattress with Milo and shared out a mango I had cut up for breakfast.

Miss Henry’s eyes shot open wide after putting a piece in her mouth. “Where you get dat mango?”

“I teef it from Crosby yard,” I said. “Well, no—dey know I taking it.”

“Dat tree in the front by dem dere?” Milo said. “Deh one wit deh branches dat go over deh street?”

“Yeah, dat one.”

“Dat tree bearing good mangos now,” Milo said, chewing slowly. Miss Henry nodded.

During Mass, Milo was silent, but he followed along in the missalette and sang when he was supposed to. He knew all the songs. He did not go to communion.

That evening as I went out to get some powdered milk, Milo was yelling in front of his house. He stopped when he saw me. He took my hand and started shaking it.

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“I must tank you for letting me sing wit you. I know I don’ deserve it. I know. Tank you so much— so much for you kindness. I don’ deserve it. Don’ deserve it.”

I let him shake my hand as he talked on interminably. I told him he sang well and that I had to go get some milk.

I decided to take the bush path the next time I had to run an errand.

After a big test I was lingering in the desolate quiet of the staff room to grade papers. I had been working for a half hour when the door for Sister Theresa’s office opened. I figured the principal was talking a parent of a troublesome student. But it was Miss Henry who came out.

Her eyes went blank when she first saw me. Then they regained their focus. “Oh, hello, Mr. Sanderson.”

“Hello, Miss Henry.”

“How are you this afternoon?”

“I am fine. Thank you. How are you?”

“I am fine. Thank you very much.”

She stood there for a moment, biting her lower lip as we stared at each other.

“Well, I had best be going, Mr. Sanderson. I will see you tomorrow. Have a good evening.”

“Thank you, Miss Henry. You too. Have a good evening.”

Why was she talking to Sister Theresa? Did she want to become a nun? Was she going to leave?

Milo missed a lot of Thursday rehearsals, but Miss Henry and I brought him to Mass every Sunday, no matter how drunk he was the night before. He surprised us with the tenor parts he knew. Miss Henry and I fell into a rhythm for early Sunday mornings. Milo was extra work, but we did not mind. It was like putting air in bicycle tires before peddling out.

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I became accustomed to that cup of coffee Miss Henry brought for me. And I made sure to bring an extra cut-up mango so that Miss Henry could eat it while she sat on that stool in Milo’s house.

After Corpus Christi, Fr. Michael decided that we would use a new set of chant psalms by this French priest named Gelineau. Sandra was accepting of the news, but the rest of us were not.

“He want we sing he white man music.”

“Dis deh tanks we get for what we do for he?”

“He not a Todos Santos Man.” “Sandra, you still deh best guitar player in Todos Santos. Pay he no mind.”

Milo sat there, mute, as we worked out our indignations. Then Sandra shouldered her guitar. “Come on. Le’ we give dis new psalm a try. Richard, could you please play an “F” for we?”

With Sandra’s leadership, we were able to learn the psalm within ten minutes or so. But Sandra was not finished with us. “Owen, Milo and Richard—I want you doin’ deh bass part. And Catherine— could you please sing deh alto?—it all in deh music dere.”

These psalms had harmonies. We had never done that before.

After another ten minutes of practice and correcting mistakes we had each learned our parts. It sounded good, really. But we had complained so much that none of us were willing to admit it.

That Saturday it rained, all day and all night. Todos Santians do not like the rain. It was a good night to just fall asleep, and so that is what I did. Milo was alone in the street, his coarse words mixed with the gentle rain.

Miss Henry was waiting for me when I got to Milo’s house the next morning. The rain had eased, but it had not stopped, and we could not get Milo up. We finally gave up and went to Jerome’s shop to wait for the church to open. I was sorry I did not tell Milo to go to bed the night before. Miss Henry sat on a stool by the counter with her coffee. Her mango was untouched. I moved out to the 53

verandah and watched the drizzle.

When it came time to leave, Miss Henry walked ahead of me. The main road would have been easier, but she wanted the bush path. I simply followed, watching her hips sway. A small layer of sandy mud was building on the soles of her sandals.

We had not gone more than twenty steps from the main road when she stopped, turned around, and looked at me square in the face.

“Mr. Sanderson. Dere someting I must tell you.”

My heart started to pound. I took in a long deep breath. “Okay.”

We maintained the three paces of distance between us.

“Mr. Sanderson.”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Mr. Sanderson. I goin’ in the States tomorrow. To Brooklyn. I have family dere.”

I reached out to my right and took hold of the nutmeg tree branch next to me. “Oh.” Miss Henry’s lips were thin as bamboo leaves. Her eyes were locked onto mine. “I sorry.”

I could not feel the ground. I could not feel anything. “Me too.”

Miss Henry swallowed again. Her chest was expanding and shrinking with large breaths. “No! No! Really! You don’ know how much it mean to me to sit across from you in deh staff room! You don’ know how much it mean to me to sing wit you in the choir. And most of all…” She stopped and swallowed. She put her head in her hands and breathed. Then she put her head back up. Her eyes had welled. “And most of all, you don’ know how much it mean to me to help Milo wit you. I really wanted to tell you back when I got out of talking to Sister Theresa… Seeing you dere. I surprised. I not ready. You don’ know! You just don’ know! An’ I sorry! I real sorry!” She put her head back in her hands. Her shoulders shook. Drizzle glistened in her wavy hair.

I stood still as a breakwater. The shock of her news was a repelling force between us. She was a 54

ghost, dead and rotting. I would never see her again, and there was nothing either of us could do.

“Miss Henry. You don’ know how I like sharing dat stupid little table wit you in deh staff room. You don’ know how I like singing in choir wit you too... An’ helpin’ Milo—'specially helpin’ Milo. I never woulda done it widout you. An’ I won’ tell nobody you leavin’.”

Miss Henry’s voice was a hoarse whisper. She shook her head in her hands. “You don’t know… you don’t know… To just leave you—like dis. You don’ know… just—how—sorry—I—is. I wish I could say goodbye better. I real real sorry!” She stopped and sniffed a couple of times. She could not stop wiping her face.

Then she put her arms down, drilled me with her soaked eyes, and broke into an unrestrained wail. “An’ I missin’ you real real awful!”

“I sorry,” I said, my own voice descending into a whisper. “Is okay. I would done deh same ting as you. Is okay. I won’ tell nobody. An’ I missin’ you too. I real sorry you must go.”

We walked the rest of the bush path in silence.

Mass was good. The new psalm sounded nice, but I missed Milo.

During the homily Fr. Michael was telling us about how we must train to be spiritual, the way athletes train in preparation to compete. Then the front doors of the church boomed open and banged against the walls. The noise of the rain came in, and so did Milo. He wavered and clung to the pew closest to him. He steadied himself and pointed at Fr. Michael. His words pelted into the sanctuary like overripe mangos blown from a tree.

“You ungrateful!”

Silence throughout the church. Heads turned across the pews. Milo kept pointing at Fr. Michael.

“Yes! Yes! You! You ungrateful! Jackass! Dees young people givin’ dey lives for you—for deh church— and dis how you tank them! We music not good enough for you? You ungrateful! Jackass! Jackass!”

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By the time Miss Henry and I got outside he was walking away, cursing back towards the church.

“Jackass! Jackass!”

We tried to reach Milo, but he kept a brisk pace, stumbling, cursing and yelling. Miss Henry and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then we went back inside.

Sandra, Miss Henry and I went to Fr. Michael after Mass to apologize. He was in his truck, getting ready to go to Granbyville. He laughed, thanked us for what we were doing, and drove away.

A few days later my mother told me Miss Henry had made it safely to the States and was with family in Brooklyn.

I took the bush path the next time we needed salt fish at the shop. I could see Milo through the leaves. He was staring out as he sat on the culvert, legs stuck out into the street, not yelling or saying anything.

I stopped walking and watched Milo through the leaves. Then I went to Crosby’s tree for a couple of mangos. I cut them up at home and went back to Milo.

He was not wearing his old gray slacks. Instead, he was wearing shorts, like a primary schoolboy. He called to me as I approached. He was sorry. He wavered and repeated himself. He told me, in what seemed to be a scripted speech, that he would never bother me or Father Michael, or anyone in the church ever again.

“I tink you should try again,” I said.

“I can’ do it,” he said. “No.” I laid the mangos on the culvert between us. “I brought you dis from Crosby yard.”

His bare legs looked muscular. For an old guy, that part of him still looked strong. He took the pieces of the mangos and started eating.

“Dees nice mangos.”

“Yea, dey nice.”

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The sun was setting. Against its waning brilliance the leaves of the trees were black. Pink clouds lit the western sky.

Milo placed a hand flat on the culvert as he chewed. I could see the light of the sky caressing his face. “An’ where dat Miss Henry girl?”

“She in deh States.”

He put his head down and sighed. His face became dark.

“Ah—it shame. She a nice girl. You not see nobody like she again.”

After a few weeks, we finally did get Milo back. Fr. Michael talked to him. That Fr. Michael was really was the best pastor ever.

I left for the Loyola University Chicago on a scholarship about six months after that. My dad clapped me on the back when we got the news. My mom sat down in her chair without looking at anyone. “Not even Brooklyn,” she said, shaking her head. “Not even Brooklyn.”

I do not think anyone helped Milo after I left. *** After coming back home from teaching at Blessed Sacrament High School in Chicago, I find a letter from my mom in our mailbox. She tells me that Milo has died. He was buried like all Todos Santians, with a big funeral procession down the main street of Marigon, in a hearst booming with Jim Reeves music. People came from all over the island, curious to see Ratdust buried.

I finish reading and a heaviness settles in my stomach. A rat lurks somewhere.

I reread the letter from my Mom and I think about Milo. He did many good things in his life, and I do not think that others were properly thankful to him. But the injustice Milo faced is not the hidden rat.

I remember Todos Santos. It is a warm country, not only because of the weather, but also in the ties shared in every village. Everyone remains fixed on each other’s business. It is terribly oppressive, 57

but also reassuring. Americans are different. I never forgot those Americans in the blue Hondas and always wondered if all Americans are like them. After living in Chicago for 12 years, I have decided that they are. America is the coldest country in the world. Even neighbors know nothing about each other here. But the cold of my new country is not the hidden rat either.

I still think about Miss Henry. She was pretty and we enjoyed each other’s company. After rehearsals and Masses it was always hard saying goodbye to her. I think about the life we did not have together. But losing Miss Henry is not the hidden rat.

I read the letter one more time. I get bored and restless at the part describing Milo’s funeral, and funerals are always important in Todos Santos.

Maybe it is my age or becoming more like an American. Or maybe I am caught up in the cares of a teacher, husband, and father. But it makes no difference. I do not have time for things like Milo anymore.

And so, I find my rat. Milo has died, and I do not care. I have become buried in the cold of this cold, cold country.

I put my mom’s letter in the bottom of my nightstand drawer. I get up, take a knife from the kitchen and head out. My wife sees me leaving and asks where I am going. I tell her I am running a small errand.

I do not tell her I am going to the grocery store. I go to the produce section. I find the mangos, take two, and put them in one of those transparent bags from a fixture with twist ties. I pay for them and walk past a nail salon and a nutrition store. I stop in front of a Vietnamese restaurant.

Ignoring the stares, I sit on the curb facing the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits my face. I pull out the knife and take the mangos from the plastic bag. I cut up them up and eat as cars and people pass by.

The mangos are good. Not as good as those from Crosby’s yard, but still, pretty good. A cool breeze brushes my cheeks. I close my eyes and savor the mango’s flavor as I try, try, try to remember.

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contributors bob beach lives in Purcellville, Va. His poems have appeared in Sugar house

review, the cape rock, =, and other journals.

Rachel workman is an MFA candidate at the Vermont College of Fine Arts in Writing. She has had personal essays published on thedrive.com and maintains a blog called earthlykitchen.com, which studies the intersection of today’s socio-political issues and literature. She lives in Maryland with her husband and golden retriever.

Michael neis lives in Orange County and works as a technical writer for a commercial laboratory. His work has appeared in Amethyst Review, Euphemism, and elsewhere.

Besides writing, his outside activities include church music, walking for health, and teaching English as a second language.

Joe sonnenblick is a Native New Yorker who was a regular contributor to the now defunct Citizen Brooklyn magazine. Joe has been featured in publications such as In

Parentheses for their 6th volume of poetry and The Academy Of The Heart And Mind, and Impspire Literary Review. Recent The Bond Street Review publications include: Aji for the Spring 2021 issue, and Ethel for the June/July 2021 issue.

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Brian jerrold koester is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best of the Net

Anthology nominee. His collection is titled What Keeps Me Awake (Silver Bow Publishing) and his chapbook is called Bossa Nova (River Glass Books). His work has appeared in Agni, Streetlight Magazine, Delmarva Review, Right Hand

Pointing, Louisiana Literature, and elsewhere. He lives in Lexington, Massachusetts and has been a freelance cellist.

John grey is an Australian poet and US resident. Recently published in Orbis,

Dalhousie review and the Round Table. Latest books “Leaves on Pages” and “Memory Outside the Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and Hollins Critic.

Luanne Castle's Kin Types (Finishing Line), a chapbook of poetry and flash nonfiction, was a finalist for the 2018 Eric Hoffer Award. Her first poetry collection, Doll God (Aldrich), was winner of the 2015 New Mexico-Arizona Book Award. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she studied at University of California, Riverside (PhD); Western Michigan University (MFA); and Stanford University. Her writing has appeared in Copper Nickel, TAB, Glass, Verse Daily, American

Journal of Poetry, Broad Street, and other journals.

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