The Albatross

He could fly. We saw it

once.

From the front hall.

We watched him wheel in from the atrium upstairs –

giant wings parting the air,

stale from disuse.

His face was heavenly;

feathers covered his arms.

We crawled up to him, petting the feathers,

but so quick his shadow rounded on itself, proceeding to the confinement chamber.

We didn’t speak of what we saw, but we knew he was the Free Man.

Free, he was free as he walked into the meadow,

shattered glass trailing from his hair

and shoes and the long length of his robe.

He didn’t think about crazy,

but as the porcelain slab pulsed through the windowpane

and he jumped out after

he came close.

We only saw his back

as he took off through the meadow—

old wheat and the squish of morning dew

pooled in those unhelpful bathroom slippers—

that’s when he started running.

What is your name, no your real name

Soldier?

Nine feet tall, tan as a redwood.

The cop said he spotted him on Main St.

He was too scared to follow through,

he thought the man was part of the sideshow

until his wife reminded him

that the carnival had left two weeks ago.

They came to see us and they asked us to

identify his break.

Did he eat a lot of yams? They asked.

No one suspected Red, the Irishman,

already out of control when the big nurse’s breasts flopped in our faces.

We just sat and stared, that’s what they wanted.

We were helping a known murderer.

Would you change your mind, sir, if you knew his story?

The man with the claws pinched the cop

and they left.

He, the man they called Soldier or Free Man,

tore right out of here the second

they performed the operation –

or maybe a few minutes after, we couldn’t recall:

Inside those four walls with the best of them,

he told me (before they cracked open his skull.)

He whispered the secrets of life into my cavernous ears

until they were full.

I tore the albatross feathers from an old pillow

and stuck them in your hair and in mine,

tied leather strings around your waist and skull.

God of war with no war cry,

I pitied you.

It was your time.

We thought he had taken Red on his back—

a copper length streamed behind the Soldier

as he left—but then we saw him,

crumpled in the recovery room, feathers

everywhere, some still hanging in the air

or caked to his naked body.

Red’s forehead was as bloated

as his paunch.

I became the Free Man as quickly as I left –

free because I stood apart.

My voice was chained up with my father.

I screamed to the free expanse,

knowing it would never come again. Then

I ran.

What would you do in a day

if your words didn’t come?

And what if it was your life?

Outside, I am the Soldier, the one who kills –

the baby killer.

They reminded me every day I was in there:

There wasn’t a place in the world I could go.

My feet dragged on the hot gravel, bare and ragged by now.

They saw him in Tulsa, eating a raw carrot,

his back hunched over, failing.

We wanted to know if he’d met up with his wife,

her breath stinking of the flames she swallowed whole.

When I smelled them on my trail, I caught a train to Long Beach,

warmed my feet in the Pacific for the first time in twenty-five years

and started flying.

He moved like a stray, a praying mantis struggling on a crushed leg

to group therapy.

This was not his place,

he never belonged here among the surgical knives and Clozapine,

the weekly blood tests that went along with it.

This was never his home.

Shore House

In the beginning, there was time, and

a baseball hat,

fishing rods,

coke bottle lenses,

world war two clippings

a Nordic track in the basement, and

a shiny new Dell computer;

an oriental rug to play-wrestle on,

Sunday dinners, tossed salads,

London Broil,

spicy sausages cooking on the grill.

These are the things that make a house:

plank wood, a flat roof,

wraparound porch,

tall trees, grass that won’t grow,

boats at the pier,

a crippled Hobie cat in the backyard.

Then there were

trees that needed to be cut down,

slips that needed to be re-dredged,

pilings erected,

driveway paved,

fireplaces cleaned,

shed built,

a n d a p r e s s u r e c o o k e r.

The computer “broke” –

so did the Sunday dinners.

Does this cover it all?

(No.)

In the end, he stood

at the edge of the pier throwing

power tools

books

a rocking chair

her jewelry

clothes

a baseball hat

newspaper clippings

a n d a p r e s s u r e c o o k e r

into the bay.

It all had to go.

They Don't Know Us Here

Just yesterday they made us watch one. Or – Let us watch, let us watch David, that’s what you mean. I’m writing it all down because I have to, I have to get it right.

Sally’s voice came over the loudspeaker, she’s the head nurse so she gets to do that even though we might get fixated on her. That’s what they call it, fixated. We can’t have girls as friends here, that’s a fixation.

Her voice was loud and she coughed and said Okay boys, Mr. Baron has been nice enough to fund a screening in Kransky for you all. Now everybody put your hands high where I can see them! Can you do that for me?

Basically, what that means is we all have to decide whether to go or not, we have to vote and we all have to agree, or no one gets to go. That’s how it works on our ward. Which really just means they don’t have enough nurses on staff for us to split up.

We all raised our hands and the aides came around and counted us up and made sure we all had clearance, if you don’t have clearance you automatically have to go into an isolation room while everyone else goes to Movies.

We all lined up to see Girl, Interrupted. It’s always a movie like that, always like that. One week, we got to see The Virgin Suicides and last week, we saw Lilith, which is a really old movie but still just the same thing. Just the same thing. They say it’s unhealthy for us to sexualize sane girls, but I guess this is OK.

We line up with our backs to the wall, tile walls the color of mucous that are sticky like mucous when you put your hands on them behind your back. We have to stand there Heel! and the guard gets buzzed in from downstairs. He has a big key and he puts the key in the lock and turns it in that exacting way that takes so long. Then he walks in and we all stand there watching as he swings the door closed behind him. We’re not allowed out until he calls the nurses over to walk us there.

The guard, usually Walter these days, keeps his eyes on us as he waits for the nurses, and then they walk us out of the ward and then they go through the same compulsions every time. Except with them it’s not called compulsion, it’s just called safety.

Lock the door behind us Click! guide us down the hall, unlock the door to the elevator room, shuffle us all in until our stink mixes together, then Click! lock the door behind us, unlock the elevators with the smallest key and push the down button, the only button, so the elevator will come up. There is no up button because we are on the top floor, we are maximum security and therefore a danger to the Earth.

In the elevator, packed in like sardines – even smelling like sardines – Morgan decides to hock a loogie. We know it’s coming by the way his face gets all screwed up, glasses almost falling off as he works his nose in concentration, but Walter’s looking the other way, assessing nail scratch damage to the elevator door, and the nurses are chatting about manicures and permanents, although probably not, more like penis sizes and who they caught trying to masturbate on the ward last night.

When Morgan lets it go, his phlegm hits the wall of the elevator like a glowing ball of moon dust, spittle flies into Charlie’s face and he starts crying, laughing and crying at the same time because he’s not stupid, he knows it’s funny, but he also knows getting a man’s mucous in your eye isn’t really a laughing matter.

The elevator slams to a stop and the nurses are desperate, they have to calm Charlie down because otherwise we all have to go back to the ward, nobody wants that, but he’s a great shining baby and most often happy so he’s quickly won over by a new whistle and some contraband Starburst that will come back to haunt the nurses ten hours later when they’re trying to get him to sleep and he’s still running around the ward, high on his sugar rush.

Morgan knows he’ll be in trouble later, but for now, the unaddressed phlegm slides down the wall like a meteor and we all watch it’s progress as the elevator starts up again, sliding down to it’s destination on the first floor, and I’m wondering if I just reached out and grabbed on, would it take me to Mars, or at least the Moon, somewhere a little closer to the sun?

Like nothing happened, it’s the same thing again when the elevator lands, shuttle us out, unlock the door to the hall, guide us down the hall until Amrita bursts out We are your shepherds! trying to make a joke because she is the newest nurse and she doesn’t know that she will be gone in a month or two, her legs are too shiny for government work.

As we make it to the lobby where we have to get buzzed through a small room attached to the security guards’ station by a glass wall, Max starts to clown around with a passing guard who plays spades with him sometimes, grabbing out at the pens tucked into his shirt pocket and pretending to jab him with them as the man laughs, feigning a seizure.

Max is young and forgets that we have to be pretty obedient to get through the glass room, but Walter whacks him on the head, grabbing the pens and shoving them back into the pocket of the guard, which shuts Max up.

We’re finally buzzed through, and I can see leaves whirling in the eddies of wind that gather outside of the concave front of the John Howard Building. We’re shuttled through the metal maze of bars – we were sardines, now we’re cattle – and finally, we make it outside. From here we can see Kransky lit up in the dusk – it’s taken us two hours to get this far – and the orange glow makes me think of the blaze on the hill, the old barn lit up against the night sky, how close I felt to the sun, how far away from the screaming.

My hair pushes back on itself, pulled by the wind, and I see tangles of white and grey. My hair is too long. I hate to see what it’s become, what I’ve become, the years spent here, longer in than out and still not an old man. I don’t belong here, none of us do, it’s not right it’s not right it’s not right! – Don’t think about that, David. You can’t think trapped, cause then you will be.

Outside, I start running around, my breath is catching on my nose and I spray it on McQueen’s head. He’s so short he just makes a loop around me because he can’t duck out of the way. His high laugh pierces the November air as he runs out of breath, stopping to hug Charlie around the waist, pulling a half-used tissue out of his pocket to remove the tears from Charlie’s face that will soon freeze in the cold.

McQueen calls himself everyone’s father because he never got to have one, and I start to giggle because the image I get of him protecting us all with his tiny hands is too funny, too sad.

We’re farther away from our home on the ward than we have been in weeks and the freedom is killing us. Max is jumping up and down, trying to climb on Clarence’s back as his tongue wags in a toothless face and Walter has to say it for him since Clarence can’t: No, Max! Don’t jump on him! These days, we only get to go outside once a week in a good month, since max security doesn’t get free time privileges. Everything we need is in the John Howard building, except for Kransky Auditorium.

So we do this thing they want us to do and we see a movie about our condition, except they’re never about our condition, they’re not even about a woman’s condition, not really. Max loves the actresses they pick to play these women because they remind him of the fucked up girls he dated a couple of years ago before he killed his buddy and landed himself here.

Those women, they’re always these weak pixies, sweethearts with fucked up brains and big gorgeous dark circles under their eyes. They always want to fuck you, in the movies, but I know what they’re really like. I saw a group of them once, the real ones. I was standing on our patio, a wide room with barred windows all around. We used to smoke out there, back when cigarettes were our currency before we became a smoke-free facility thank you so much Mayor Fenty.

I was the only one out there because it was Clarence’s birthday and I hated him, the way his jaws smacked and his talk about being God, Superman, the ladies’ man, the way he drooled over a nurse’s breast, touching himself in the steam shower. He was ancient, horrible, a predator no longer in control, Clarence was – I said don’t talk about him, David.

And that’s when I smelled them. Nothing like Marlena, all warm soap and husky clove; they reeked of sweat and old fish mostly. Their dark bodies moved like crustaceans across the grass and I could almost see them underwater, their bodies moved like that. They were wild, wilder than us and wilder than the women in the movies, that’s for sure. They just didn’t give a shit.

I watched one of them whizzing by the cat farm, she just pulled her pants down and started doing it and I had to crane my neck to see past the sign where it says DON’T FEED THE CATS which I could always see from the ward but no one would ever tell me what it said. On our first movie day, I had to see it, and I ran as fast as I could to read it before they noticed me missing.

I started laughing, remembering that day and how funny the sign seemed to me then with all those hundreds of cats roaming around, but I stifled it because I wanted to see if she’d be able to pull her overalls back up before the nurses figured out what she was up to. Sure enough, just as she stood up, pants still around her ankles but hooked in her fists, ready to hike them up, a nurse ran over.

The crazy girl paused for a second and I thought she was just going to hike her pants up and be done with it, but just as the nurse got within striking distance, she dropped those pants back down, clocked the nurse right in the nose and tore off down the street, leaving her pants where they had fallen. Of course, two guards tackled her within seconds, but they had to be very careful or they would have been charged with sexual harassment.

I saw that girl’s naked brown ass whenever I closed my eyes for weeks, but it never did me any good. In here, they put a chemical in the water so we can’t get hard, ever. They took away our erections and gave us the Tyra Banks Show, which is on in the common room all hours of the day.

The night after the movie, I wake up in a cold sweat, dreaming of Marlena, the way her hair looked fanned out on the pillow next to mine, always the smell of her. Even in my dream I couldn’t get to her, she was so far away; I wish I could get back to her. Maybe she wasn’t so different from the girls in the movies they show us.

Sometimes, when they lock me in for the night and my mind goes numb, I can see myself breaking away from this flock of rancid men and just running up the hill and around the bend straight into Southeast. I’d jump over an electrical fence, I think, if I had to. I’d kick out a guard station for sure. I think about doing all of this just about every time I go outside, until I’m play wrestling with McQueen, which he always initiates. He distracts me every time.

The McDonalds Maid

The panes of glass were scratched and stained with dirt. The rows of tiles covering the floor were caked with mud and rust, dotted with catsup smiles and translucent lettuce leaves. An old woman bent to pick up a French fry with her gloved hand, half hidden behind her mop and bucket. I disliked McDonalds but I went because they had the best light to write by, and I could sit there as long as my stomach could take the smell of soggy French fries and the sour insides of babies’ stomachs, provided I bought a cup of 99 cent coffee.

Marlena the McDonalds maid’s life was in this building. She had been there since the building opened in 1973. She had been a secretary for the law firm that constructed the building. Every morning, she had brushed her long blonde hair for twenty-six minutes to make it shine, put on a crisp white oxford shirt and popped three breath mints before heading to work.

When the law firm went bankrupt, they put in a Chi-Chi’s. Marlena worked as the pretty hostess. She wore shorts and she cut her hair shorter to match, bleaching it bright blonde. But that went under, too.

She worked bagging groceries when they put in a grocery store. Her hair turned greasy and she hid her body under her big red apron. She painted her nails bright and grew them out so they clicked on the keyboard when she stood at the cash register.

When the grocery store closed, they opened the McDonalds that Marlena and I have known for the past ten years. Marlena started out as the premier fryer, making batches and batches of fries, chicken nuggets, and burgers. After a few years, the smoke and grease began to play on her eyes and her eyesight left her. They took her away from the fryer for fear she would burn herself or else fry something plastic. So she started to clean the McDonalds and her skin turned into ammonia.

Marlena was working her way to a dumpster funeral out back.

The people in this town were not destined for greatness. That was why I always came back to Marlena – crusty nametag and all. Marlena had it right, in this life. Whatever it was. She lived a simple life, in a simple town. She woke up, put her uniform on, washed her hands and went to work. At night she sat up with her television and went to bed by ten. Uncomplicated.

I’d come to this McDonalds once a month for the past eight years but I had never tasted the food, not once. This time though, Marlena’s look from the back booth as I stepped up to an open register was too much to bear. I ordered the hash browns.

I know, nobody eats has browns any more, particularly at two in the afternoon on a Monday – but I felt obligated. I carried my tray to a seat by the window and stared at the cold slab of deep-fried potato in its cardboard bed. Now I remembered why.

I turned to Marlena. She looked at me, waiting. I took a bite, then another, and another. The hash was gone, and I was filled with a warm, comforting feeling. Marlena beamed, shuffling over to remove my empty tray.

Maybe she led a small life, but Marlena’s looked pretty great to me. There were no spoiled children, or deadlines or torturous divorces. There was no fighting or bankruptcy or credit card bills. She never had to worry about dying parents or college funds or meetings.

I couldn’t write, so I packed all my papers into my backpack and headed home. In bed that night, Marlena’s face haunted my ceiling – her greasy, dark hair, her mad smile with tobacco-stained teeth, her grimy fingers washing, washing, washing the McDonalds’ bathroom. Not a bad life.

My back ached. I turned onto my stomach and curled into a ball like I did as a child. I fell asleep with my face in the pillow and dreamed that Marlena glowed, bright purple and yellow; her hair was curled and black. Her face was brilliant, her teeth gigantic. She stretched her arms out to me. She began to dance, spinning around me, faster and faster.

When I woke up, I had grown wings.

Molasses

My foot dropped to the first floor landing and I raised my hand to the wall instinctively. The paper was rough from the imprints of hundreds of flowers. I traced the edge of a viola before moving to the kitchen, passing the mud room and the pantry on my way down the hall. Walter had put the kettle on the stove at six and I could hear the whistle from upstairs. He knew I would want a cup of tea before he returned home from the mechanic.

The first time I met Walter years ago, I told him he had hands like a mechanic’s. They were cracked and dry, covered in dirt, and they smelled a bit like gasoline. I didn’t think I needed a caretaker, but it becomes inevitable if you live as long as I have. As I grew older, the people I had grown to rely on got older too. Metty Lord absolutely could not be trusted behind the wheel any longer, and my butcher, who had delivered the finest meats to my door every week for thirty years, had passed away the previous September. Personally, I had only fallen once and that was because of Chester, but he was dead now too.

I felt the tiles on the floor with my bare toes, counting one, two, seven before raising my hand to the counter. I reached for the knob of the cabinet overhead, pulling out my ceramic cup. Setting the cup down on the counter and swinging the door of the cabinet shut, I wrapped my hand protectively in an oven mitt before proceeding to pick up the kettle from the open flame. It is amazing to me how many people lose an arm or else get badly burned because they haven’t been careful with their stove.

I hoped Charlie wasn’t awake yet; Walter’s cousin was staying in the basement, in the room with the furnace. He was a quiet man, someone I couldn’t easily notice in a room. I didn’t know what Charlie would have done if he’d had seen me wandering the house alone. Walter was careful to give me space, but most people insisted on helping me. To be honest, if Walter hadn’t spoken out of such necessity, I probably never would have let his cousin stay at Marlfarm. I trusted Walter completely, but we got on well with our privacy.

Walter hadn’t seen Charlie in over thirty years and then he found him in the corn field. At night, I liked to stand by the back windows overlooking the old corn fields. Walter would play the piano and I would sing. Sometimes he would put on a record and in a really wild mood we would dance. It was one of these nights when Walter found Charlie. We were dancing and carrying on when we both heard a strange noise, like a low growl, then a high keen. Thinking it was a wolf, Walter said he was going out to secure the trash. I stood by the back window with my palms against the panes; I must have been a sight with my hair wild from dancing. A few minutes later, Walter returned with a man he introduced as his cousin.

Charlie was escaping something. Hospital or prison, I wasn’t entirely sure and I didn’t care to know. I sensed Walter’s hesitance when he tried to explain it to me. I didn’t want to be involved but I told him Charlie could stay for a while. I knew what it was to miss a loved one; sometimes you’ll hang on to the closest thing. All the same, I would have hated to run into him alone in the house. I’d never forget the time I reached out for his hand; we were at the table and Charlie asked Walter to pass him the potatoes. That night Walter and I had made a stew with chicken and potatoes and peas. Of course, the potatoes were mixed in with everything, but I thought Walter’s response was a little harsh. Charlie was a bit slow; he had a sweet voice, low and quiet with a heavy drawl. I reached for him out of empathy, laying my right hand on his left as he sat near me. The whorled scars bubbled as though from deep within his bones. He pulled his hand away quickly, hissing at me. I had never felt something wicked like that before.

Feeling a need to get out of the kitchen, I moved to the window in the great room, placing my palm against a cool pane. I hoped the weather was nice today because I wanted to sit outside on the porch. Picking up my shawl from the back of my favorite comfy chair, I stepped into my most substantial slippers before unlocking the front door. The porch’s floorboards creaked as I pushed myself through the door frame, making sure the screen door was closed tightly before settling into my rocking chair.

The crisp October morning rolled toward me. I felt a breeze from across the orchard, carrying the smell of singed apples from Raymond’s place. I heard geese overhead, forming their V pattern in the sky. It wasn’t truly cold out yet but I was glad for my blanket. I heard a new whistle, from the distant East, as the night train steamed through the Hudson Valley toward the Catskills.

Rocking, I sipped my tea slowly. A car pulled into the drive, and I stood to greet it. As the door slammed, my neck curved toward the man who had just emerged. “Walter, you’re home early.” I could smell the grease on him from the drive. I had known he would try to help the mechanic despite what the doctor said.

“Hello, Miss Daisy,” Walter drawled. His voice was like molasses. “The car’s all fixed. Do you still want to go to the market today?”

“That would be nice, Walter. We’re all out of carrots, I noticed, and I thought maybe I’d make up a stew for us tonight.”

“Alright, Miss Daisy. Tell you what, let me check on Charlie and then we can go right away. Let’s get you tucked in the car and I’ll be back in five minutes.” Walter took my arm, trying to guide me toward his car.

“Now hold on, Walter. You know I can make it to the drive on my own. You go ahead. I’ll be fine,” I batted at Walter’s shoulder before walking to the edge of the porch, stepping down to the first line of bricks leading down to the parked car.

Walter sighed, muttering, “Okay, Miss Daisy,” under his breath as he opened the front door.

I trudged to the passenger side of my old Dodge, pulling the handle and shifting quickly to avoid hitting my head on the way into the car. I found the key where Walter had left it in the glove compartment and turned on the heat. As the car warmed up, the hot dry air began to lull me to sleep.

I was driving with Walter, through the lovely winding woods of the upstate. I could almost smell the sap on the air. Pines always meant Christmas and my father. Walter drove beautifully. That had been one of the demands I made in my advertisement; my caretaker must know how to drive, well. No racing over speed bumps, barreling through curves. I kept to the country and driving like a maniac from the metropolis just wouldn’t do.

I turned in my seat. Walter was suffering. I was in his apartment before I met him. He was eating pickles and dry toast. The walls were threadbare. We were both alone in the deep space. We were both orphans.

The noise jolted me. I had brought my blanket into the car with me and I struggled with it before freeing my arm and thrusting myself out of the door. Whatever noise it had been had propelled me into motion. Now I could hear only silence, radiating from the farmhouse in front of me. “Walter!” I yelled, rushing forward. I heard no response from inside the house but I tripped across the front lawn.

I heard a faint noise from the back of the house, like rustling corn. I kept moving. Finding the iron railing, I mounted the brick steps I had descended just minutes earlier and pulled open the screen door.

I was overwhelmed by the smell of gunpowder. I’d gone hunting with my father every weekend before he had his accident. I remembered him placing an orange cap down over my blonde curls that morning before we left. We were tracking in the back woods when I saw a flash. Pellets sprayed and I’d hit the forest bed, crunching into needles. My father was always careful when he brought me hunting. He had been taken by surprise and I was knocked down in the confusion. When I woke up, my sight was missing.

The air was thick with it, with something sweeter underneath. Making my way in, I heard a faint rattling from the piano room. I crossed the great room in three strides, passing through the French doors into the back room. My foot bumped against something soft and sharp. The something groaned and I recoiled.

“Is he still here?” the thing croaked. I barely recognized his voice. I knelt down, crawling toward Walter, who lay inert with his arm under the piano bench. I could feel the sunlight streaming through the windows from the field. My knee felt moist and when I reached for Walter’s face, my hand came away sticky.

“I think he left,” I said, my voice wavering. My face was a few inches away from Walter’s. I wanted to see him; to Walter, my eyes would look almost white. They were blue once, a brilliant dazzling blue like you’ve never seen before but the doctor cut my irises out.

“Did he hurt you? I heard it.” I ran my hand across Walter’s chest, feeling for broken edges.

He inhaled too quickly. “Yes, Miss Daisy, he got me good. Right through my shoulder. You’d better make the call.”

I fell backward, catching my weight with my left palm. Spinning up, I felt for changes in the air. Charlie wasn’t here now. I walked to the kitchen, reaching for the telephone on the wall and dialing.

“Hello! Yes, we need help. Come quickly. It’s happened, Raymond,” I wavered as I slid down the wall, closing my cloudy eyes.

Turning

You jolt awake. Your cell phone alarm sounds from under the covers. You blink bleary eyes as you rise fully dressed from your bed. Running a brush through your hair you pad to the bathroom and realize that you’ve already been awake today, at six a.m. when your roommate decided to begin work on his latest Rorschachian mural on the wall of your loft.

You unscrew the cap from the case holding your left contact, inserting first that contact and then the right into your eyes, wincing as you scratch your cornea with a finger nail. You blink furiously, turning away from your roommate to avoid his scrutinizing, bespectacled gaze. You check your white shirt for wrinkles before pulling socks on over the black leather leggings you have just worn in bed for five hours.

In the kitchen, you pull a banana off the shelf, grabbing a Kashi bar and a carton of milk. You have fifteen minutes before class starts and you sit down on the couch to write, pulling your knees up under your chin. Artemis your cat slinks up the back of the couch and curls around your neck, strangling you with his fur.

You hear techno blaring from upstairs and Jack’s footsteps as he races from one end of the loft to the other. Flicking on the television, you track Matthew Fox’s face as he runs across the screen, pursued by something large and black.

You lie back on the couch and stare at the ceiling fan. The front door opens and you flinch.

Molly has returned from New York with four pieces of luggage and an oversized Barney’s bag that she struggles to haul inside. It is raining.

You stand up and gather your books, wrapping a red scarf around your neck. “Bye Mol,” you call over your shoulder as you walk past her to the open door.

You shut the door, consciously leaving it unlocked. A boy passes by your feet and you track him with your eyes. His hair is sticking straight up out of his head and blue. You say, “Paul, give me your umbrella. I’m late to class.”

He grins up at you and shakes his head. “Sorry, duckling, I can’t get this wet,” he explains, pointing up at his hair. “You coming this way?”

“No, asshole. I have class in Walsh,” you say, tapping your foot. “See you for dinner? At Peacock?” Your feet splash on the brick steps as you walk down to Paul’s level. You put a hand to Paul’s face, kissing him on the mouth. He tastes like broccoli, which you find strange because he usually tastes like cinnamon in the morning. You push your orange-flavored gum into his mouth with your tongue. You have five minutes to get to your writing class and you don’t want to call attention to yourself today because you have to make a deal with your professor.

You pull your scarf up over your head as you step over the cobblestones in your patent white flats, careful not to get mud on the faces of the mice printed on their toes. You focus on your feet as you cross the road once, twice, three times.

You see Jasper sitting on his windowsill in Nevils, smoking a joint. He reaches his hand back into his room and pulls out a Colombian flag, which he waves at you. It floats for a second, then is too saturated to move. You look away, moving toward the building. “You’d better hurry, Merrin,” Sam calls as she races into Walsh before you.

What an excellent day for an exorcism.

Going for the Western & Attraction (Companion Pieces)

Going for the Western

John held Susan by the elbow as they walked across the lot toward their new car. He held the door for her as she slid in, tucking her in like a kitten before bounding to the driver’s side and slamming the door after him. He checked behind him before easing the car out onto the road. They needed to get moving if they wanted to reach Las Vegas by midnight.

Susan arched her back and curved her neck to the left, peeking between the seats. “Lots of room back there,” she commented. Her heart was still beating two times too fast. She had never seen so much red paint, so much cream leather before. “We’re sitting on some goddamn soft cows.”

Susan was jolted out of her thoughts as the car swerved to the left. John had taken his eyes off the road as he reached up to ease the fabric of the convertible top back behind their heads. “Can you jump on back there and fix us up, baby?” John asked Susan with a lopsided grin.

Susan squirmed in her seat, pivoting between the front seats and hoisting herself far enough into the back seat to push the convertible top down to rest in place. She felt a bit self conscious; she knew her skirt was a little too short and John was guaranteed to be staring. She looked around from her place in the back seat; by now, they had made it to the highway. The desert extended in every direction possible. The night was clear and perfect; the velvety black sky dotted with sequins.

“Susie Q, why don’t you come back up here where I can see your cute ass?” John drawled.

Susan complied, but once she was tucked in to the jump seat, she looked over at John. Glancing hesitantly at first, her gaze whipped back over to John and she drew in a sharp breath as she stared at his ear. “I told you not to call me that,” she said, soft but evenly, gaining confidence, “Or Susan. I’m Martha now, Mrs. Martha Washington.”

“Okay, Martha. What do you want for dinner, Mrs. President?”

She smiled shyly. John had been her man for six years and he still made her nervous sometimes. She was proud of herself, and what they had just done. Part of her still couldn’t believe it. She was the best damn assistant John could ever ask for. “What can you eat that’s three thousand dollars?” Susan asked.

They had put John’s black dress socks on their faces before they jumped out of their old clunker – what a car; it had only taken them five blocks from the bank when it started making that funny noise. On an impulse, John decided to trade it in for a new 1958 Thunderbird before the cops could even figure out what was going on. Cranbrook was a slow town and things like this never happened.

The sock had been itchy. Susan was surprised she could see out of it as well as she could; she knew the people in the bank couldn’t see her. They had planned it out over breakfast. John was to take the lead and Susan would hold the gun. She could shoot pretty good, but she sure didn’t want to. John said he knew it would look better if the man was holding the gun but they both knew Susan couldn’t be trusted to get what they wanted. “You’re not the best with speeches, darlin’,” John had put it sweetly.

They stopped at a diner in New Mexico, a real greasy spoon. “Pancakes?” John asked. Susan gave him a fierce, happy look. “Not tonight. I’m going for the Western tonight.”

“Baby, you sure do like them omelets when you’re proud. I’m glad you’re so pleased with yourself. You should be. We pulled off a real great heist today. I couldn’t a’ done it without you, sugar.” John leaned across the table and landed a quick kiss on her forehead.

After dinner, it was back to the road. “When we get to my sister’s place, what do you think we’re gonna do, Johnny?” Susan trained her owl eyes on John’s ear, following his sideburns down to his stubbly chin. They hadn’t showered yet today and she wondered if they’d get to.

As if reading her mind, Johnny said, “Well I don’t know about you, but I’m going to take a nice, long hot bath and if I fall asleep after there’s no harm in that.”

Susan shivered. “No, Johnny, I mean with our lives.” She pulled a flowered scarf from her bag and tied it around her face and under her chin, keeping her hair back and warming her ears.

“You sure look silly like that, Susie. I mean, Martha Washington, excuse me,” Johnny said with a smile.

Susan ignored his last comment. She knew she would finally get the answer she wanted after how proud Johnny was of what she’d done today. She had to ask him. “Let’s get married, Johnny,” Susan stared at John, imploringly. “Don’t you want a baby soon? We can stop all this nosing around and start a real life. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Susan had been waiting an awful long time for Johnny to come around. He knew how important it was to her for them to get hitched but he always had an excuse. Sometimes she thought maybe she wasn’t likable enough, sometimes it was her lack of smarts. She knew she wasn’t getting any younger. After what she’d done for him today she thought she’d finally caught him.

“Baby, that’s a lot of talkin’ about marriage for one night. I’ve had just about as much as I can take on the subject. I love you, baby, but it just ain’t a good idea.”

“Oh Johnny,” Susan flopped down in her seat, pushing her knees toward John and leaning on the door a little. “It’s just an idea,” Susan conceded, rubbing the arch of one foot with her thumb. A giant green sign declared that they were ten miles from Nevada. “And keep your eyes on the road.”

Attraction

The fan in the bathroom hummed. My foot shook. It was quiet in the room. I could hear a woman squealing.

“Oh Daddy, Daddy I beg of you, whisper to Mommy, it’s alright with you.” Johnny was singing in the shower. He was dancing, the white bar hugging his slick body. He would be in there forever.

I waited on the bed, but damn it, I couldn’t forget. I was the one who needed a shower. I knew tonight would be one of those nights, when you cry so hard your face turns orange and your eyes get that baked look in them. That’s what showers were for.

He was right though, he did smell something awful. I picked up his shirt. He wore a ratty white t-shirt all day with the pocket half torn off.

There was blood on the shoulder but I pressed the shirt to my face anyway. The smell was familiar and intoxicating, like a car crash where no one gets hurt.

I took off my skirt, slipping his old shirt over my shoulders. I would wait here on the bed in his shirt until he came out of the shower. He would see me and as we made love he would know he wanted to get married.

We were in Las Vegas for Christ’s sake. If he were ever going to change his mind, it would be here.

The bed was an expanse of white and down. I thrust the back of my skull against the pillows, squeezing them against the red headboard and kicking my knees up. The water was pounding against Johnny. Steam escaped through the cracks in the door.

I burrowed my toes in the blanket, pushing them forward. I was exposed. As the water shut off I threw off Johnny’s shirt, pulling the robe down from the hook and twisting it around my body.

I sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed. The doorknob turned.

“Watch out, lady. I’m about ready to crash. That shower’s all yours.” Johnny’s towel was slung low on his hips, exposing the patch of dark hair below his navel.

“Johnny,” I whined, “I’m not quite ready to get in the shower.” I sat primly on the edge of the bed, looking up at Johnny. He walked toward me. The dark patch was right in front of me.

“Baby. I ain’t playing around. Why don’t you take a nice, long bath? You need to get clean, Susie.”

I hated when he called me that. Plus, he was still supposed to call me Martha. “Martha!” I yelled, scooting past him and heading for the bathroom.

“Martha!” he yelled back, grabbing me with one hand under my shoulders and hoisting me up into his arms so the backs of my knees were over his left arm. He kissed my neck and the exposed part of my chest between the folds of the robe.

We rushed into the bathroom. Johnny held me tight to his chest as he bent down to turn the water on for the tub. He sat down on the toilet lid to wait, with me on his knee, my arms around his neck. The scruffy hairs on the back of his neck felt strange. I was too close to his chest for us not to be touching.

I tilted my chin up and looked into his eyes, deep and brown like an Utahan forest. He had shaved his stubble and I brushed my nose against the smooth surface of his cheek before kissing him on the mouth. I moved in and our skin touched. He wrapped his arms across my back, pulling me closer. This was what I had wanted all along.

The steam rose from the hot surface of the water, which had now reached the lip of the tub. “You’re all ready,” Johnny stood up, pulling me with him. I braced my arm against him, easing myself in.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, John had gone. I wondered what he was doing, out in the bedroom. He had probably fallen asleep on the bed, feet at the headboard, listening to the radio as usual, but I had a nagging feeling he wasn’t in the room at all.

I scrubbed my toes, hurrying to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. I was so tired, but I pushed myself to get out of the aromatic bathwater. I rubbed the hard towel all over my body until I was completely dry, pulling my robe back on after.

I turned the glass doorknob, peeking out into the room. It was empty.

Johnny’s suitcase was out on the bed. His shoes were missing and so was his heavy coat.

I went to the balcony, throwing open the curtains and stepping outside. “Johnny!” I yelled. A couple on the street stared up at me, then hurried away down the road. I kept yelling. A woman in a room on the floor below us told me to shut up.

I put my palms up to my temples. I didn’t feel well. I ran back into the room, checking under the bed and in the closet. Maybe Johnny was just playing a trick on me. He left me in the tub, asleep, to die. People really died that way.

I pulled the room apart. He wasn’t there. I either had to wait for him or go find him myself. I had no idea where he would have gone. He couldn’t pull something in Vegas, it was too dangerous. Plus we had more than enough cash from this morning.

The money was gone. I checked once, I checked again, I put my whole hand through the false bottom to Johnny’s suitcase but the money was gone. Johnny had taken the money and run.

I weighed my options. I could call the police. Would they know it was me back in New Mexico this morning? I was the one with the gun. Calling the police wasn’t really an option. I could look for our new car, keep looking for Johnny, keep chasing him across every border. Or I could just end it now.

I couldn’t jump in my bathrobe. I searched the suitcase for my light purple slip. I put on my pantyhose, my longest tan skirt, my silk lavender blouse. I buckled my brown Mary Jane pumps and checked my face in the mirror, freshening up my red lipstick.

I stepped out onto the balcony. The night was cool and crisp, and I could see stars in the moon despite the heady glow from downtown. I looked down and felt the rush of nine stories. I swung one leg off the edge of the balcony, turning around to face the inside of our hotel room. I stood on the edge, scraping the concrete with my Mary Janes and extending my arms. I was shaking. I closed my eyes; it was peaceful.

“What are you doing? Susie!” I opened my eyes. Johnny was standing in the door with a bucket of ice. I smiled. “You old nut, get in here right now,” Johnny pulled me over the metal rail, sweeping me to the bed. My head was cushioned by about a dozen pillows. I felt calm.

“Baby, you could have killed yourself. Are you still hung up on that marriage thing? I’ll think about it. Okay? I promise.” John looked very worried. “Let me tuck you in here.” He poured himself a big glass of Jim Beam, making it a double for me. I’d done good.