Issue 2

FICTION:

• The Value of Time, y Will Cean

• Sorrow Cake, by Tory Brannigan

• Lovely Martha, by Tina Morganella

• The Vase, by Jo-Anne Rosen

• Shifting Gears, by Linda McKenney

POETRY:

• Trailer Park in Present-Tense, by Mathews Huey

• Whole Foods Parking Lot, by John Oliver Simon

• folks come out the woodwork to like your successes on facebook, by Bernard Ferguson

• notes on a traveler, by Audrey Gidman

• bIrish-American Feminism, by Nicole Connolly

EDITORIAL TEAM: Marina Crouse, Tonya Kelley, Tiffany Argueta, Allison Blackley, Jacqlyn Cope, Claudia Pocasangre, Kegan Swyers, Sharon Cleveland Blount

ADVISOR: Joanna Novak

Carnival Tinkets and Ferrys Wheel, by Betsy Jenifer

In Plain Sight, by Kyle Hemmings

FICTION

________________________________________________________________________

The Value of Time

by Will Cean

I have always hated my father, a petty, pitiful little man who never amounted to anything in his miserable life. I can remember, countless times, him coming home with some hair-brained scheme about getting rich, which was always the root of his folly. There wasn’t a con man in five miles that hadn’t gotten him for his money at least twice, and by his money, I mean my mother’s money, because he could never keep a job. “I’m meant for bigger and better things,” he would say, after being fired by another employer.

I never knew what my mother saw in him. By the time I was ten years old, I could see the difference between him and all the other fathers. One example is-our next door neighbor Mr. Johnson. I can’t remember his profession, but I do remember seeing him leave for work in the morning and returning in the evening.

My father, on the other hand, would come home in the mornings smelling of liquor and smoke from wherever he been the night before. The worst thing is that’s when he would be most affectionate, pawing and slobbering on me.

I couldn’t stand the sight of him, let alone his smell. He always reeked of cigars, coffee, and cheap cologne. The few times he didn’t come home, my mother would get a call, and we would have to go down and bail him out. These are the memories I have of my father.

I take a deep breath, smelling the cut grass and freshly dug earth. The combined aromas fill my nostrils, as my mother leans her head on me. The wind lifts her veil and I see her red her eyes. The cemetery she chose is a beautiful place. A sea of green grass with random rows of grey stone markings laid on top of a hill overlooking the town below, too nice of a place for a man such as my father.

When I asked my mother how much she paid, she refused to tell me, but I’m sure he didn’t contribute a cent. Even in death, she’s still supporting him. I reach for the pocket watch that was my inheritance. The last thing my father gave me, as he lay dying in the hospital. I flip it over to the back, reading the inscription that I had read over and over since getting the stupid thing.                                                                                                                                                     “Time is beyond value.” How ironic a man who had nothing but time and made nothing of himself would own a pocket watch with such an inscription. I went to ask him what it meant, but he passed suddenly, right there after giving it to me. The pastor had to say my name twice before I came out of my trance. I walked to the podium at the head of the casket.

I recited the poorly written speech. I chewed on glorified euphemisms about life and death, trying my best not to speak ill of the dead, but nearly gagging on every word. When I was done, I sat back down next to my mother. We watched the casket descend into the cold dark earth, hand in hand. At that moment, I realized my father had once again, gotten his way, requesting the eulogy be done by me, fully knowing how much I hate both him and even worse, speaking in public. If it wasn’t for my mother’s constant begging and nagging, I would have never honored his last wish, let alone seen him in the hospital.

The service ended; the people attending made their way to say their condolences. The turnout was bigger than I had anticipated. I guess the one thing my father had was an abundance of friends. From the way they spoke, it seemed like he was always doing something for someone. But when he needed something, I hadn’t seen any of them.

The grey shine of the suit brought out the white shirt and purple tie of an older man who approached me, after kissing my mother on the cheek. The letters KC in what look like diamonds were carved into his cuff links. He had an over powering presence and I wondered how someone like this knew my father. He firmly grips my hand and shakes it. “Pleasure to finally meet you. Your father often spoke highly of you.” I could do nothing but smile and shake my head as I wonder who he was.

This man had an air to him. He seemed out of place among the others attending. He shook my hand, and placed his other hand on my elbow gently taking me to the side, whispering in my ear. “You have it with you…good. I would have hated to come all this way for nothing.” I look at him strangely before asking what he was talking about. “The watch I saw you fondling it earlier.”

I unconsciously reach in my pocket presenting the inexpensive pocket watch. “This thing? It doesn’t even work.” The man’s eyes open larger than window panes as he clutched the watch from me. “Thank you. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to have this back.” Fear gripped me for a moment. I feel compelled to ask him for the watch back.

“Wait. That was the last thing he gave me. Why do you want it?”

The man turns to face me. He takes a long pause before giving me a reply. “You tell me, what is this watch worth to you? What is the value of your father’s final gift?”

The question catches me off guard. I look him over trying to figure him out. How did he even know about the watch? What did he possible want with it? It doesn’t matter I‘ll just say some ridicules number. “10,000 dollars” The moment the words spill from lips, I regret it. No one would pay that especially for a broken pocket watch.

“Done!” He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a check that had already been signed. He writes the amount I asked and hands it to me. The man turns his back leaving without saying another word. I stare at the check in bewilderment, when my mother grabs my arm. “So how did it feel meeting Kevin Cinder the richest man in the state?” My mother said smiling from ear to ear, I stared at his back. “Kevin and your father were childhood friends. Believe it or not Kevin owed much of his success to your father.”

I was going to ask how, but my mother looked to be lost in a past memory. “Your father saved his life one night, and as a reward, he gave your father a precious heirloom that had been in his family for generations. He told your father that he could trade it in whenever he wanted and name his price, but no matter how tough things got your father held on to that watch because he always wanted you to have it. Saying with this gift my son will always know the value of time.” 

________________________________________________

Sorrow Cake

by Tory Brannigan

No one ever sets out to make a sorrow cake. But sometimes, Grandma told me, “You can’t help it, it gets in there anyway.” 

I decide to make cake—lemon or chocolate or pineapple upside down—and I’m mixing the batter feeling fine and up pops a worry. Like, I hope my husband keeps his job this time. Or, Jamie better not get another cough that lands him in the hospital. Or, I hope there’s no problem with this baby. I start thinking of Grandma, who died last year from the cancer that just ate her up.

Then to make it worse, I keep running into Charlie everywhere around town. He always smiles that sweet sexy smile like he did when we were going steady in high school. And I think, what would it be like to be married to him and I know I shouldn’t. I love Steve. I do. I married him because I loved him, not because Jamie was already growing big inside me. But it makes me think of how I cried when we broke up, a whole month of salty tears and red eyes and no sleep and little food. I lost weight and I looked real good when I stopped crying. 

I keep making the cake—lemon—trying to think of happy things as I grate peel and mix it in. I make cream cheese lemon frosting to go with it. But I know even the lemon won’t mask all my worries and sorrows working through it. 

Which makes me think of my paintings. I can see one through the kitchen door into the living room. It’s bright blue with fun yellow drops and orange cones. Abstract. I held promise in high school. I don’t paint anymore. I don’t have time. 

Later, we eat my cake, Jamie slurping it down with a grin for me. Steve’s got a funny look on his face. 

“Something wrong?” I ask. 

“No, cake’s great honey. Has a different flavor. What is it?” 

I shrug. “Maybe I used more lemon.” 

I can’t tell him what it is. That the spice is sorrow.

I see Charlie again. At the grocery store. I don’t wonder why he’s there in the middle of the day. Work’s hard to come by right now. Or maybe any now in a small town like ours. 

“Hey, Hope,” he says, walking up to me with that damn smile. 

“Hey, Charlie.” Jamie’s standing beside me, one arm wrapped secure around my leg. 

“Hey, Jamie,” he says. Jamie gives him a half smile, but says nothing. Jamie can be a shy boy. 

“Just shopping, huh?” Charlie asks. He doesn’t know what to say. 

I nod. I don’t know what to say either. 

He turns to Jamie. “You starting school this year?” 

Jamie nods. 

“Good for you.” 

“He’ll be in kindergarten. He really wants to go to school,” I say, a note of pride in my voice. 

“When’s the other one due?” 

My belly is seven months now, no longer do people pause before asking. You know, just to make sure I’m not just fat. 

“October,” I say. 

He nods, eyes flicking from my belly to my eyes to hold my stare for a second.

“I’ll get you guys a baby gift.” 

“Thanks, Charlie.”

A look comes in his eyes, one of those wistful mighta been looks and he glances at my belly again and then at Jamie. 

“I gotta get going,” he says. 

I stare after Charlie and I think, he’s still got a cute ass. 

Jamie takes my hand and we finish shopping. We buy generic brands and the only meat I get is greasy hamburger, the cheaper and fattening kind. We have food stamps and Steve is still working. Maybe we’ll luck out this time and he won’t get laid off. There really isn’t any point in me getting a job right now. 

I’m scared for when the baby’s born. We don’t have enough as it is. 

“Mommy.” Jamie pulls at my hand. 

“What, baby?” 

“You’re not moving.” 

“Ok. Let’s go check out.” Jamie races into the house when we get home and turns the TV on. He pops a Scooby Doo video in the old player the previous renter left behind. We don’t have cable or dish. I put the groceries away and tell him to turn the volume down. He does and I cut up apple slices for his snack. 

Jamie’s a good boy and he’s excited about the baby. He really wants a little brother, but doc says it’s a girl. I don’t care. I wasn’t so sure I wanted Jamie and I’m not so sure about this baby. But, I look at Jamie hanging upside down off the couch to watch TV and I love him with such a fierce love, the kind that grips my heart tight and I know if anything happened to him it would squeeze and stop my heart. But that’s not how I felt when I first had a pregnancy test come back positive.

I know I shouldn’t, but my friend Ruby told me where Charlie’s been staying and I get Jamie settled in the back of the car, and drive slow by the place. It’s a crappy apartment in the midst of a whole row of crappy apartments where drug busts are more frequent then trash pick ups. I don’t want to park there. I just want to see if I catch a glimpse of him. 

The wind blows in the open window and I gag. The sewer plant sits directly behind the apartments and is especially smelly today. I glance in the rearview mirror and see Jamie wrinkle his nose. 

“It smells like poop, Mommy.” 

“I know. That’s the sewer plant. Everybody’s poop goes there.” 

“Everybody’s?”

“Yep.” 

“Cool.” 

Only a five year old would think it cool where everyone’s poop goes to. Jamie’s been on a kick about the body lately. Especially fart and poop humor. Steve has gotten tired of pulling his finger. 

I don’t see Charlie. I drive down to the library. 

Jamie loves books. He’s going to be so smart, I can tell. His favorites are Green Eggs and Ham and Hop on Pop. He’s addicted to Dr. Seuss. He can already read them by himself, but he loves to be read to, and then he can follow along with his finger pointing at the right word.

I’m addicted to sappy romances and horror books. Steve thinks it’s a funny combination. Sometimes Steve just doesn’t get me. I don’t get either today.  

I check out a book on abstract art and The Lorax and Cat in the Hat for Jamie. I plan to buy him most of the Seuss books for Christmas, but he loves the library and checking out books and bringing them back, and I catch him staring in wonder at other bookcases full of stories he hasn’t read yet. 

Driving back home, I spy Charlie at the gas station in his rust spotted pick up. I need gas anyway. Pulling up to the pump, I feel butterflies in my stomach. Not baby butterflies or baby kicks, but old scared butterflies bumbling around. 

What am I doing? I’m fat and uncomfortable and stalking my ex-boyfriend and dragging along my son. I get out of our car. 

“Hey, Hope,” Charlie calls out. 

“Charlie, guess I’m running into you everywhere.” 

“Guess so. Let me pump the gas for you.” 

“Ok. Hang on a sec.” I find a twenty dollar bill in my pocket and go inside to put it on pump four, my lucky number. “Thanks, Charlie.” 

He smiles and pumps the gas. “Twenty doesn’t get you far anymore. I remember when it filled up the whole tank.”  

“Yeah, wasn’t a big deal to go cruising in high school,” I say. 

This brings memory sharp and sweet into my mind. We cruised a lot since there was nothing else to do, in the same pick up Charlie still owns. This generally led to parking and to making out and to sex. Our eyes meet and I know he’s thinking the same thing.

 Charlie looks away and puts the nozzle back. “See you later,” he says. 

“Later,” I say. I never say good-bye. It always sounds like I won’t see the person ever again. Charlie waves at Jamie who waves back. 

I wonder what Steve will think. If I don’t mention seeing Charlie, Jamie will, so I’ll have to tell Steve.  

I don’t make cake that night. I make pudding instead. Instant pudding is made too quickly to take on any sorrows.

 A week later, Jamie starts school. He cries when I leave him the first day and then forgets all about it when his teacher takes his hand and he walks into the primer coloredroom with letters as big as him ringing the walls. He’s excited he can tell his teacher he knows all his letters and can read and knows his numbers up to thirty. I feel proud. 

At first, I almost don’t know what to do without Jamie with me. I keep glancing back in the backseat to make sure he’s buckled up and he’s not there. Freedom’s an odd thing. Not that I’ll be really free for long or am right now. 

I begin to realize this obsession with Charlie is probably my hormones skittering every which way. I put him firmly out of my head and tell myself—I will not think about him. This works for a little while. I quit cruising by his apartment.

Fate, though, does what it wants to. The damn car gets a damn flat tire on the way home from dropping Jamie off. I stare at the tire for a moment. I look at my belly. I do know how to change a flat, but can’t imagine doing it around my baby. 

We don’t have cell phones anymore. We couldn’t afford them. Steve’s getting paid tomorrow and wants to get me a prepaid cell phone so if anything happens with thebaby, I’ll have a phone. Steve can be a thoughtful man. 

It’s not that far to the house. I’ll just walk it and borrow the landlady’s phone.She’s always home and doesn’t mind. Jamie has completely won her over. He’ll go overwith his books and read to her. They both love it. 

I walk. It’s hot though, that last summer hot, but I can feel fall creeping underneath like summer’s fighting for its last breath and fall’s just waiting it out. 

Charlie pulls over in front of me. “Are you Ok?” 

“No. The car got a flat and I didn’t feel like changing it. I’m going home to use the phone to call Steve.” 

“I can change the flat for you.” 

“Thanks, Charlie. Can you take me home first? I need some water.” 

“Ok.” 

I hoist myself up in the truck with a little push from Charlie. I glance over at his profile; his nose is just as pointy as I remember it with his dark hair hanging in his eyes that just begs me to brush it back off his forehead. 

He helps me out at the house and walks me in. I get a glass of water and pour one for him, too. I open my mouth to say—Ok, I feel fine, let’s go get the car fixed. But Inever get it out.

Charlie leans over my belly and kisses me and not any kind of shy kiss either. I remember exactly how his lips fit against mine and he tastes like Wintergreen gum because he’s always trying to quit smoking. Charlie’s kiss is sweet like cake made with happiness. 

I’ve missed Charlie, I have and I don’t even remember why we broke up in the first place. But it’s been too long and when he stops and backs up, there’s another man’sbaby in between us and I look at the fridge where I have a picture of Jamie and Steve in dirty T-shirts and jeans with baseball caps and Steve’s holding the ball and Jamie’s holding a bat and they’re grinning like all get out. Right next to the reminder of my next doctor’s appointment. 

“Hope,” he starts to say and it’s almost like he’s not saying my name, but like—I hope, and then stops. 

I can’t. I don’t even tell him anything. In silence we go back to my car and he changes the tire and I drive home. I call Steve and tell him Charlie helped me fix it and Steve says that’s good and he’ll go get me a damn phone after work. 

Jamie doesn’t smile when he gets in the car after school. Usually, he tells me all the cool and exciting things only five year olds get to do. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask. 

“Tony wouldn’t sit with me for lunch.” Tony is his new best friend. 

“How come?”  I look back in the mirror to catch Jamie’s shrug. I wish I could do something about it, but there’s not much I can do. “Maybe you’ll sit together tomorrow.”

He mumbles a maybe.

“Let’s make a cake when we get home. What kind do you want?” 

“Chocolate,” he says. I smile. Jamie’s my love, my life, and I see his smile when I look over my shoulder. Maybe the cake will be sweet.

________________________________________

Lovely Martha

by Tina Morganella

Martha’s nakedness had only ever been for her husband. Before and after they were married, their cosy embraces had led to clumsy unfolding, unzipping, brushing, tugging until finally she was bare. She was timid in those moments, almost never standing or crossing the room. She was usually already on her back on the big soft bed, her body quickly covered by her husband’s hands. Afterwards she was covered by the sheets. So her nakedness was a manner of speaking but never explicit. It was, if anything, surreptitious.Even during the stifling, humid summer, Martha was always clothed. There were concessions – she carefully hiked up her skirt and rolled her sleeves back to nothing. She may have undone buttons but her underclothes were certainly always in place, and if her husband peaked down her shirt with a slightly wolfish grin, she would blush. Even after years of marriage, she would avoid eye contact and shyly put her hand to her throat, raise her arm across her chest. Her instinct was to bar the way. Even at night, after making love, she slipped on her simple cotton nightgown before turning to sleep. She was grateful for layers.Being naked always felt overwhelming.Her husband had never been interested in the whole of her. He kissed her behind her ears and brushed the back of her knees, but they were concentrated moments of seduction.She rarely reclined or arched her back, sprawled and lovely so that he could admire her, so that he could rest a chin in his hand and lust over her. She still had fine limbs, despite her middle age. Her skin was still supple and pleasant enough for sleeveless tops. Maybe her bottom was no longer snug in her shorts – a little bit squashy instead. Her hands were still delicate, her nails buffed and healthy. Her hair was cut short and bouncy, the odd grey hardlyvisible in the light brown gold. In short, in anyone’s eyes Martha could still be called desirable.

He was never the sort of husband who ravished her, or had the insatiable carnal desire of romance novels. True, his eyes were glossy, his palms hot when he wanted her, but he was always easily and quickly satisfied. He never asked if she wanted to make love. She never asked herself either. There were few affectionate words between them during these moments.But there was nothing in their marriage in general that indicated discord, dissatisfaction or discontent.And yet, he had left her for another woman. Another set of eyes, hands, breasts, legs.Pieces of a whole. She wondered if he did anything different for her, with her. Did he pause a moment, for her? Or did he carry on blindly as usual until sated? Did he leave Martha because of all the layers she wore?All this she thought whilst sitting at her kitchen table. That she felt indifferent was more disturbing than the event itself. Oh she had cried quietly, and the shame of it made her hang her head and wonder how she’d be able to go to the local shops again. They would blame it on her, she knew, even though she felt reasonably sure she had done her best. But in the background, she knew she should feel more than this vague disappointment and restlessness. It was as though she was impatient for the next thing in her life to occur.  She glanced out the window. Next door she could just see Mr Anderson watering his geraniums. They were wilting in the intense summer heat. A fan clicked and whirred on her kitchen bench, the breeze of it fluttering the hem of her dress. She lifted the fabric to expose a knee and the fan air ballooned her dress under her thighs. She shivered at the sensation. She raised her dress a little higher. Both legs were exposed. Looking down at her sandals, turning her feet this way and that to admire them, she also noticed the plump skin of her thigh and the sheen of her calves. Suddenly, she stood, raised her dress above her head and took it off altogether. She stood there shocked. She was still. Careful. There was something vaguely forbidden about it. The window didn’t even have a curtain. She looked down at her body and smoothed her hands over her hips, across her bottom, up her arms and down again across her stomach and breasts. It was nothing then, to take her bra off. After all, she took that off to go to bed at night. Her underpants were another thing altogether. She took a deep breath and slipped them off, quickly and quietly. She folded them on a chair as though she were about to take a shower. But she wasn’t taking a shower. She was in her kitchen in broad day light, with the fan going, the window open and without a curtain, and Mr Anderson watering the geraniums. And now she was fully naked. She snickered and snorted, then covered her mouth guiltily. But after a moment she began to smile and giggle and then raise her arms and pirouette around the kitchen table. She felt the fan breeze on her naked bottom and laughed harder, out loud, without covering her mouth.An internal song moved her arms above her head. She tossed her head back and her swayed her hips. She was naked. Gloriously naked. It was as though this was the first time she had ever been so and something bubbled away inside her and overflowed with innocent joy. For certain, her husband had never seen her like that.

And her nakedness was now for her.

____________________________________________

The Vase

by Jo-Anne Rosen

The estate sale items are displayed on a shaded porch that wraps around the old Victorian like a ruffled skirt. A tall, thin woman with gray hair in frizzy braids flutters between tables, rearranging cups and saucers. She's wearing an ankle-length floral muumuu and dark sunglasses.

“It's all priced to go,” she tells Miranda. “Look at this marvelous bone china tea set. My mother bought it in England after the war.”

Miranda doesn't need a tea set or any other gimcracks. But she feels drawn to a porcelain vase, priced at $9. The vase is pale ivory, hand painted with a spray of lilac, and plumply curved at the bottom. There are two handles at the narrow neck and, incongruously, a cork loosely fitted into the opening. It would look lovely anywhere in her home, perhaps best on the living room bookshelves. She carries it off wrapped in newspaper and crammed into her shopping bag with greens and fruit from the nearby farmer's market.

She and her husband used to drive to that market almost every weekend till he got too sick for outings. Lloyd would eat a lunch of barbecued ham hocks and cornbread there. He also loved exploring the old quarter of town, where his mother had been raised. Would he have been familiar with that turreted Victorian? The house is also up for sale, along with the bone china tea set and an assortment of antique furniture. Might he have known who lived there? Friends of his grandmother, perhaps? He might have played as a boy on that sloping lawn under what had once been a giant elm, now only a stump. She was almost certain he'd told her something about that house and who lived there. She could have asked, but the woman with the sunglasses, after securing the sale, had seemed preoccupied and unapproachable.

Miranda puts the vase on the coffee table and goes into the kitchen to prepare dinner. She fears she will never grow accustomed to cooking for one. She hates all this fuss for herself. On the plus side she can eat whatever she likes, fresh vegetables and fish instead of hamburgers and fries. She'd tried to change Lloyd's diet, but he was a stubborn man. He knew what he wanted and that's what he got, and look what happened to him. She isn't sure she believes bad diets cause cancer, but she's not taking any chances herself. Still, she'd give it all up to have him back alive and well. She'd eat burgers and fries every night and forgo vegetables, if that would restore Lloyd to her.

Sometimes she hears his slow lilting drawl in her head. “Honey, you know I'm not going to eat any of that grass, no matter how you cook it.” She sees his crooked grin, the stained teeth. The pale blue eyes with white showing beneath the irises, the sultry come hither look.

When the phone rings, she hurries to pick it up, grateful to be rescued from self-pity. It's her sister Claudia, calling from thousands of miles away to hector her. Miranda sits and listens to the familiar litany. “It's been two years. You shouldn't stay home every night. Go out with your girlfriends. Get out of town. Visit your children and grandchildren. Visit me.”

“Why don't you visit me, Cloudy?”

“I'm still working. You're retired.”

They tell each other whatever news there is and say “I love you” and hang up. Then she's alone again. Except for Mr. Darcy the cat, who has hopped on her lap, but skitters away when she stands up. The cat skulks along the wall and disappears into the darkened living room. A little later she hears a sharp thump and a startled meow.

She turns on the overhead light. The cat, nowhere in sight now, has knocked the vase over. Oh why didn't she put it up on the shelf? But it's alright. It fell across a stack of magazines that cushioned it. She picks it up. One handle has cracked and broken off. That can be easily repaired. The cork has fallen to the floor and there’s a fine gray powder on the table. She shakes the vase. Something sloughs around inside. Uneasy, she fetches the flashlight from its place by the front door and shines it inside the vase.

“It's a funeral urn!” she cries.

Mr. Darcy darts out from under the couch and flees the room.

She takes a deep breath and marches back into the kitchen, carrying the vase in both hands before her. She places it carefully on the table. Then she straightens out the newspaper it had been wrapped in and shakes out the contents. Those are ashes alright, fine and possibly a little sticky, about a fist full. She shuts her eyes and covers her mouth with one hand. Normally she is not squeamish, but she finds this repellant. She feels a cold chill despite the heat.

Pull yourself together, sugar. She hears Lloyd's voice again.

She pours the ashes back into the vase, shaking out every last bit from the paper. Then she puts it on a closet shelf where the cat can’t go. And finally she sinks into a chair.

She is appalled. How could that woman have put a burial urn up for sale? Whose ashes could they be?

Mr. Darcy approaches her mewing. Maybe those are the ashes of the deceased mother's cat? But still, the daughter should have known about it and if not, should be told,

“It wasn't your fault, Mr. Darcy,” she soothes. “I shouldn't have left it on the coffee table.”

It's too late now to drive back across town. She'll glue the handle on tonight and return the vase in the morning.

She's seen cremated ashes once before, which is how she reckons the amount of ash isn't enough for a human body. When their neighbor and long-time friend was dying, having outlived everyone in his immediate family, she and Lloyd promised to sprinkle Harvey’s cremains in the Gulf of Mexico. Lloyd did not approve of cremation. His church considered it a heathen practice. Yet he hired a motorboat and they went out into the gulf with that box of ashes and put what was left of their friend in the water.

“I'll never see Harvey again,” he said, which seemed really obvious, but she knew what he meant. He would never see Harvey in the afterlife. Unsaved and incinerated, Harvey had relinquished his pass to the Pearly Gates.

How she wished she could believe in Lloyd's vision of heaven. Because she could not, he had died believing she was damned. He’d said as much: “Girl, you never accepted Jesus, so we're not going to be together again.” It was after the cancer got to his brain or he would never have said such an awful thing, though surely he was thinking it all those years, trying in vain to convert her.

Miranda tosses in bed most of the night. It's no use. She never could and she can't now accept Jesus as her savior anymore than she could opt into a hundred other religions. It's Claudia’s fault. When they were teen-agers her sister convinced her there is no God, never mind the son of God. And why then did she fall for a Southern Baptist?

Actually, she didn't. Though she's loved Lloyd dearly for 40 years, he practically had to hog tie her and drag her to the altar.  She wasn't interested in men or sex or women, either. She was an athlete in college, fleet of foot. She could outrun most of the boys, like Atalanta in the Greek myth. Lloyd could never catch her, not with that limp from a hunting accident. But he courted her doggedly. He wooed her family and friends as well. Everyone was rooting for Lloyd. She succumbed at last because she wanted children, and she knew he was a good man. He would be a good father, she thought. And oh he was.

The big surprise was not so much her husband's eager and tender love making, but her own response. That is when she fell for him. She lies in bed remembering and can almost feel the weight of his arm across her stomach, as if he were still sleeping next to her. She thinks that was the only heaven they will ever know.

In the morning Miranda scrubs her face. Her eyes are red rimmed from lack of sleep. She is too wrought up for breakfast, but forces herself to drink a little orange juice. She sets off downtown with the vase in her shopping bag, cushioned with crumpled newspaper.

Traffic is stalled on the bridge over the bay. How could she have forgotten about rush hour? Lloyd would have waited before setting out to avoid the commute. Mrs. Impatient, he used to call her. She fiddles with the radio but all she can pull in is gospel music or fundraisers, so she snaps it off.

That new paint job on the dashboard is really awful, she decides. Lloyd’s plastic Jesus had been cracked and dirty, and the detailer said it impeded her view. It might even have been illegal. But now the dashboard is scarred. A shadow of the statuette is still there, like a scraped stigmata. She’ll have to clean it off, somehow.

It's almost ten when she pulls up to the old house with its gingerbread fretwork. The witch's house, she remembers now.  That's the story Lloyd told her, and his mother told him. Bad little boys were baked into gingerbread in that house.

A U-haul van is parked out front. A man in baggy Bermuda shorts is helping the woman load boxes into the van. She is wearing the same muumuu and sunglasses as yesterday but now her hair is pulled up in a knot atop her head.

“Excuse me,” Miranda says. “I have something that belongs to you.” And she takes the vase out of the bag.

The woman turns and stares.

“Purchases are final,” she says. “I don't want anything back.”

“Please, let me explain. There are ashes in it. This is a burial urn.”

“What?” The woman leans against the van. Her face is pale, as if drained of blood. “What else can happen,” she murmurs.

“Let me have a look at that,” the man says, taking the vase from Miranda. He peers inside. He sticks one finger in it.

“Oh, don't do that,” Miranda cries. “That could be someone you know. Or knew.”

“I had no idea what was in there,” the woman says. “I thought it was just a vase.”

“Good God,” the man says. “Could this be Daddy?”

“That's not possible. We scattered Daddy's ashes fifteen years ago.”

They all look at the vase, plump and innocent of meaning.

“I don't know what else it could be, sis,” he says at last. “Mom must have kept some of Daddy's ashes all these years.”

“I can believe it,” the sister says. She takes off the sunglasses and wipes her eyes. “She'd talk to him like he was right there in the room with her.”

“But why wouldn't she have told you about the ashes?” Miranda asks.

Brother and sister exchange wry glances.

“She didn't tell us much of anything,” the woman says and looks away. She puts the sunglasses back on.

“She probably just forgot about it,” the man explains. “She had senile dementia.”

“Could it be a cat or a small dog?” Miranda wonders aloud. Or a little boy, she can’t help but think.

“We never had any pets,” The woman says, her voice flat.

The man hands the vase to his sister.

“When we pick up mom's cremains, we can add these to it,” he says. “Is that a plan?”

She nods agreement. “It must be what she intended. They'll be together now.”

She turns to Miranda. “It really was very kind of you. Do you want the vase? You paid for it. We can put the ashes in something else.”

“Oh no, not at all. I couldn't.”

“Let me refund whatever it cost. Here, is ten dollars enough?” She digs into her pocket.

“No, please.” Miranda backs away. “There must be some dementia research fund to donate it to.”

She hurries over to her car, not even turning to wave good-bye.

The car splutters and stalls in her haste to leave. She turns the key again, slowly, the way Lloyd taught her, and the engine purrs. But the hand on the wheel is trembling.

I’m ridiculous, she tells herself. It's not some dirty old ashes that matter. She looks at the splotch on the dashboard and thinks that shouldn’t matter either, but maybe she’ll leave it just like it is, after all.

_________________________________________

Shifting Gears 

by Linda McKenney

Today, I will go home with either something I can’t wait to know better or a dud I’m stuck with.  This is my first, all-on-my-own automobile purchase.  I’ve chosen the Chevy dealership because my dad always drove Chevrolets.  My insides have accelerated to fifth gear, and inside my head I’m humming “See the USA in your Chevrolet.”   I try to sift down to neutral, as I enter the showroom.  At first, no one seems to realize that this woman, with three children in tow, might be in the market for a car.  Finally, abig, burly salesman saunters over and introduces himself.  I try to return his power handshake.  I’m working on self-esteem. 

“I want to purchase a reliable used car that’s reasonably priced with good gas mileage.” 

Smiling knowingly, he stops short of patting me on the head.  “I have the perfect car for you!”   

Grateful that he doesn’t add “Little Lady,” we exit the showroom and walk along the line of cars, further and further from the building.  This can’t be a good sign.  I see cars I like and stop. He waves me along.  At the very back of the lot, we stop in front of the ugliest car that I’ve ever seen.  I know why they keep it hidden.  The humming stops because we are standing in front of a Ford.   

Please tell me this isn’t the car he thinks I should buy? 

“This here Ford Fiesta is the perfect car for you.”  He begins extolling the car’s virtues.  “The Fiesta XR2i is a front wheel drive hatchback with a front placed 1.6-liter engine. It’s good on gas,important for a woman in your situation,” he adds, rolling his eyes toward my children.  “It has a manual transmission.  Do you know how to drive a stick?”

“Driving a stick is beside the point. This car has chartreuse paint and black and white hound’s tooth check upholstery.  I’d feel embarrassed every time I drove it.  It screams – she has no taste.”   “Ma-am, I have your best interests in mind.  You don’t choose a car by color.  You shouldconsider other features, like gas economy and price.  This is a good car for a woman on her own, with limited means.”

How does he know I have limited means?   My newly acquired independent luster is disappearing like a Studebaker.  This guy doesn’t get it. While I need economy, I also want some class.   

 I refuse to let this car salesman puncture my fragile self-esteem with his large take-my-advice-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you needle.  I summon my resolve, “No, maybe this is a good deal, but I want to find a car that I enjoy driving. I’m going to continue looking.”   While that salesman and his Fiesta are not the right fit for me, he plants a seed.  The concept of a small, compact car hadn’t entered my mind.  

*

When there were just two children, my father owned a sedan.  He fashioned a table-like board that fit across the hump in the back seat floor.  As I was the elder, I got to stretch out across the seat and my sister got the board.  We had pillows and blankets to snuggle in on long car rides.  I would lie on my back and watch the trees and clouds whiz by until I fell asleep.   Three additional children over the next several years necessitated larger vehicles.  The first station wagon we purchased was previously owned by the Red Cross.  The car had a new coat of white paint, but the big red cross on the side was never completely disguised.  This worked to our benefit for the annualHalloween parade.  Pulling down the tailgate and dressed as patients and doctors, we turned the inside of the vehicle into an ambulance.  We won first prize for the float that year. We five children often argued as to who would sit in the way-back seat.  Only holding two passengers, it faced where we’d been.  When stopped at a red light, we’d try to engage the passengers in the vehicle behind us.  The first one to get them to wave was the winner.  When I was old enough to drive, we owned a “Woody,” a long, sleek station wagon with wood panels on the side.  The size of that car intimidated me and since we lived in a small town and could walk most anywhere, I decided not to get my license. When I turned eighteen, I decided it was time to get my license.  One the day of my driving test,my father insisted I practice.  After a couple of failed attempts at parallel parking, he began screaming at me.  I burst into tears and refused to take the test.  The experience put the brakes on my desire to get behind the wheel.

*

 When I was married with my second child, I got my license but rarely drove anywhere.  We still lived in that small town and I liked to walk.  When we moved to the suburbs, I had to get behind the wheel.   Our marriage traveled on cruise control, until the day it came to a complete stop.  My husband declared that he no longer loved me and wanted to leave.  But there was one roadblock.  We only had one car.   “I’ll stay until you buy a car.”  He didn’t want to feel any guiltier than he already did.   

“Where are we going to find money to buy another car?”   

I didn’t care how guilty he felt. 

Embarrassingly, I had to borrow $500 from my parents to make the purchase.  We started looking.At first I took my time.  Perhaps he’d change his mind.  This was before I knew there was another woman.  Once I discovered that, I knew our marriage was a total wreck. He found a dark green Chevy Nova and took me to see it.  With two doors and a sleek design, I thought it looked like a muscle car.  I could imagine myself in it.My soon-to-be-gone husband deemed it in good running condition. There was a small hole in the floor on the driver’s side, but I could live with that.  The day I brought the Nova home, he drove off in the family station wagon. leaving the family behind.  Our combative separation wreaked havoc for my children. I felt my family disintegrating, and in retrospect it almost felt like the Nova commiserated with our emotional trauma.Much like the walls of my unhinged heart, the driver-side door started swinging open when I took a wide right turn.  I fastened a piece of rope inside to prevent that from happening.  Similar to holding the pieces of my heart together.The hole in the floor of the car grew larger, spewing up water on a rainy day.  I worried that the whole interior was going to collapse onto the road.  Could this car protect us?  It wouldn’t give up.  In spite of the damage it held itself together.And I began to imagine it was sending me a message.  You’re strong.  You’re a survivor.  In someways the Nova saved me, but it had served its purpose, and I was ready to move on.

*

The idea of a compact car drove me to purchase a red Plymouth Horizon, with a manual transmission.  I can’t yet drive a stick, but I tell myself it will be fun to learn.  My friend accompanies me to pick up the car.  We proceed to a large parking lot, so I can learn how to use the clutch and shift.  I’m getting the hang of it, but we’re on level ground.  I don’t realize that everything will change on a hill.We leave for a practice run and when I have to stop at an intersection, at the top of a hill, panic sets in.   Each time I try to move forward, the car rolls backward.  A car full of men is behind me.  They are yelling and blowing the horn.  After a few tries and some tears my friend suggests I put on the emergency brake.  She trades places with me and we move forward.  As the man-car passes us, I try not to listen to the obscenities streaming from the open windows. The Horizon is now our family car.  When my son’s in his senior year of high school, I decide that we need a family adventure, before our numbers are further reduced.  This is my first and last long road trip with my three children.

*

 We’d left early that winter morning, while it was still dark.  After two hours on the Thruway, the car was emitting smoke signals.  Pulling over, we discovered a crack in the radiator.  My MacGyver son shoved snow into it, attempting to cool it down, but we knew that we had a serious problem.  These were the days before cell phones, so we waited in the cold, until a state trooper came to our rescue.  He radioed for a tow truck and allowed us to ride to the repair shop in his car.  Stranded until the repairs could be completed, we found a pizza place close by for an out-of-the ordinary breakfast.  The cost of a new radiator consumed most of the money I’d saved for the trip and set us back several hours. Back on the highway, we continued to the hotel I’d booked for the night.  We arrived very late,and I could barely keep my eyes opened.  Not wanting to scare my children, I concealed my struggle to find my way.  But they all started screaming when I drove the wrong way on a one-way street and ran over part of the curb attempting to enter the hotel parking lot. The next day, I realized that the idea of me driving all the way to Florida was not reasonable.  So,we bent the law.  My daughter, who only had her driver’s permit, wasn’t supposed to drive outside of New York State.  But she took over driving, while I napped in the back seat.  I instructed her to keep within the speed limit and stay in the driving lane.  “Don’t pass any cars,” were the last words I mumbled as I dozed off. When I awoke, everything seemed fine.  We pulled off at the next exit to switch drivers and made it safely to Florida.  Later my daughter told me that her brother had encouraged her to exceed the speed limit and pass other cars.  I guess our guardian angel had been watching over us.

*

 When my two older children were out on their own, I purchased a  Buick Regal.  My second red car, I ignored the assumption that police pull over more red cars than any other color for speeding,  My daughter Beth and I planned our first road trip to Cape Cod. To prepare for our adventure, I took the Buick into the dealership for a complete inspection.  I’d wanted to be responsible and ensure that this time, we’d have an uneventful trip. Within minutes of arriving at our destination, my car started to buck, and I barely managed to get it off the road before it stopped dead.  That guardian angel must have come along on this trip as well, as we managed to break down with a car rental agency within walking distance.  We entered with two other people on our heels.   “I need to rent a car.  And I need to arrange for my car to be towed.  I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”  “You’re in luck.  We only have one car left.” Arrangements made.  I reluctantly turned around to leave, facing the people behind me.  They don’t return my smile. At the repair station, I learn the status of my car.   “It will take a week to get the parts needed to repair it.  There’s a problem with the valve gasket. All of the oil leaked out.  The engine is seized and needs to be replaced.” I leak a few tears, knowing I will have to return in a week to retrieve the car. My daughter and I head home.  Between the cost of the rental and repair, I had no money left for our mini vacation. I contacted the dealership that had checked out the car for me before we left on our trip. They took no responsibility for not finding the oil leak.  I pleaded and wrote to the owner to no avail.  Then I wrote to Buick headquarters and they stood on the side of the dealership.  I vowed never to own another Buick.  

***** 

I’m on a blind date, excited but apprehensive.  Will he be someone I want to get to know better?I’ve already dated a few duds. When he picks me up, I notice that he has a really nice car.  However, my limited knowledge of automobiles prevents me from realizing what make it is. Over dinner, I’m lamenting about my Cape Cod fiasco and feelings about Buicks. 

“I hate Buicks!  I’m looking forward to the day I can trade mine in and buy anything but.” 

He pauses a second, not wanting to cause me discomfort.  

“My car is a Buick Grand National.” Awkward silence.   

Chagrined, I ask him about the car. “It’s a nice looking car.  I didn’t realize it was a Buick.”  We laugh. 

He tells me how much he loves this cool, limited edition car.  Maybe I will grow to love Buicks? 

On our second date, we go out for ice cream.  As I’m getting into the front passenger seat, holding my ice cream cone, I manage to slam it up on the ceiling.   

“I’m so sorry.” I’m embarrassed almost to tears.He’s laughing.  “Don’t worry.  I can clean it.” I like this man.  My heart is idling.Four months after we’re married, I’m leaving the house and back right into his beloved Grand National.  My first thought is to pack and run, but I go into the back yard to tell him what happened. 

I’m crying.  “I’m so sorry.  I backed into your car.”  

Now I’m sobbing. He hesitates for a moment and says, “It’s just a car.  It can be fixed.”     

My heart goes from zero to sixty in six seconds.

POETRY

_____________________________________________________________________

Trailer Park in Present-Tense

by Mathews Huey

Your punch-drunk something or other

snores perfume in his recliner.

Outside, a lawnmower strikes

basalt, or mammoth tusk.

An earsplit dog

yelps its owner’s name.

The second rocket

launch of the day quakes the yard.

In the meantime, your wingspan

tangles, becomes gale-torn, too spurious

to remember its strength, ribcage

uncoiling like a silver fern

in acid rain.

The world you’ve been wearing

as a scarf gashes at the neck, butterflies away.

Imagine how embarrassed

the dinosaurs would be if they knew

how rabid you are, how featherless.

_____________________________________________

Whole Foods Parking Lot

by John Oliver Simon

Neuronic where-I-parked-my-car locator

flips out of service like an app on the dash

I maintain air of resolute purpose

hoodwinking young folks loading carbohydrates

as I cruise by behind them with shopping cart

directed successively northsoutheastwest

not spotting the faded tennis pelota

I stuck on kayak rack (not used anymore)

to not gouge eyes of daughter riding shotgun,

nor does my keyfob kindle servile flashes

of AI still pretending subservience.

I’ll wander alone in this immensity

until I forget my own identity

should the young folks get concerned enough to ask.

_______________________________________________________

folks come out the woodwork to like your successes on facebook

by Bernard Ferguson

folks come out the woodwork to like your successes on facebook 

is what a wise person / a few years younger than i /

once told me / and i think my time has come /         i can

tell from the tremble in the fabric / hanging from my

body / each buzz / a sliver of pride /        sent from a

place that i am not / by a person / beaming / on my

behalf / a person who has / at          least once / spoken

my name in a prayer / or around a table with their kin /

one day / i hope to        have a wedding / in a room filled

/ with the bodies that i love / and me / the shimmering

thing in        the middle / but until then / i will settle for

this small joy / this growing list of names / i once          

asked a man that i admired / if i could follow / and

learn of how he survives / from the light and    magic /

of my phone / and now he too / is in my pocket / linen

at its peak / a swarm of my            cousins / and the

companions i met in my youth / when i was vivid and

unconcerned with        becoming / here too / is the girl

 / who linked her lips with mine / under a shivering sky

of      gunpowder / and confetti / and my pocket is a

heavy chorus  / of champagne and gratitude / and  

amongst the hums / is my mother / telling me that the

alley / on which i once lived / is splitting      open / and

an unbroken stream of hands / is rising from the dirt /

their dead and blue thumbs /  stretching toward the

stars / and the woman i am now with / who is sitting

beside me / but at the    same time / is also in my pocket

/ looks up and says / look / at how infatuated people are / 

by                    your breathing / and what it has afforded you 

/ then flicks her fingers / across the cold window of          

metal in her hands / and watches a hundred faces

speed by / without blinking

_________________________________________________

notes on a traveler

by Audrey Gidman

he wonders aloud to himself where did the road end

for the one who kept walking? he is standing in the kitchen

hair unkempt and curling like hot wires. He wrings his hands

until his eyes are crushtightsmile and unanswered     sometimes

he paces, muttering about voices

echoing in the large stone room of his mind     he mentions

the screaming but he is thick-knuckled so he tells

of the backpack days instead

of Alaska Indiana California Maine

of waking up drugged hungry anonymous

but he refuses to forget humor, winks a dark eye while he thinks

but forgets where he is     sometimes

he dismantles the word trust. Gets lost when he knows where he is.

No bicycle now no rotting socks. A closet full of his own clothes

he doesn't know what to do with     he tells me

when he talks to me he can't decide if I'm trying to kill him or not.

Says he is stretching across oceans.

they really fucked with me face cracking

he laughs, his eyes are shaped like porcelain

when he talks about himself he gets chipped.

He carries a room made of himself

and he is afraid      of losing it

can't decide if he believes in location he is afraid

he will look down one day and not    see a body

______________________________________________

Irish-American Feminism

by Nicole Connolly

My aunt, from Chicago, never got used to the rolling

accelerations and decelerations of Ohio highways. A cop stops us

for trying to get through his small town as quickly

as possible. I admire that my aunt flirts with the officer,

Hartman, a name I thought about changing to make

this story more believable. She gets us out of the ticket,

but he sets his sights on me, sets his thumbs inside his belt—

loaded with danger. She tries to keep talking to him;

he invites me to watch him run a marathon, juts out

his pelvis and says, I won’t be wearing this. After

he gives up, my aunt and I screech our laughter. How dare

he! That too old man! That abuse of his uniform!

The hills lull my aunt into a dream of other futures, and as

we drive past classically red farmhouses, their alabaster

grain silos erect through the fields, she loads her smile

as if with fabric softener, says What if Hartman bought one

of those for you?, hangs her voice on a line in the wind:

What if he gave you a small one to write in?