2021 Writing Contest Winners
Adult Prose
First Place: DEL
Christine Pinto
The evening news called it the coldest winter in decades, but Del remembered it as hot—hot air blowing at him out of all the registers, all the time.
“All these windows,” his wife would say. “What were they thinking with all these windows?”
Del would scooch his chair away from the hot breath of the furnace laboring to keep the house warm and stare out all those windows at the cool, white snow.
That was the winter he changed his name. He had been called Del before, by his school pals and in the army, but it was his legal name, Delbert Leander III, his father’s name, that bullied him from every piece of correspondence that crossed his desk. Delbert Leander The Third kept its eye on him, reminded him daily, as his parents had done, that he was destined for great things. Delbert The First and Delbert The Second had been great men, and he was expected to pile up great loads of cash and security just as they had done.
The judge asked only two questions. “Are you doing this for any illegal purposes?” And, “Will changing your name hurt anyone?” The answer to the first was easy. The second, harder. He suspected his wife would not be happy, that this could even be construed as hurt. Hurt that he would cause her. But he half entertained the vain hope that she might, just might, think it was cool. Well, not cool. Cool to her was still a word for describing the evening air after a hot day or the moment the pie was ready to eat. It was not a word for an idea, or a lifestyle. But he couldn’t quite give up the thought. After all, she had understood him once.
But when the first piece of mail addressed to just plain Del Leander arrived, she scoffed. “How darned informal everyone is getting!” He grimaced, but she didn’t see it. “It’s those hippies. They’ve got no respect for decent people.”
Del thought the hippies might have got the right idea, but he didn’t say so. Later he would try to convince himself he had been trying to be kind, or polite, but even then he knew it was just cowardice.
When the snow finally melted and bits of green showed outside all those windows, he couldn’t get them open fast enough. The furnace pumped out even more blazing hot air. His wife closed the windows.
“Who opened this?” she would say, never waiting for an answer.
It was plain it could only have been him. The children were gone; the cat couldn’t have done it. Years later he would wonder why she never asked him why he did it. At the time he didn’t think it strange. She never asked him why he did anything.
He felt the sweat every morning when he, encased in a crisply ironed shirt and tie, hung his suit jacket in the car and squeezed behind the driver’s seat. He strapped himself into the seat belt, his wife’s requirement, necessary to preserve life in case of a crash. He opened the window and sucked in as much cold spring air as he could, carefully combing his hair back into place before each sales call. At the end of the day, even hotter, he would buckle himself in and open all the windows for the drive home. Later he would wonder why he thought the life he was living back then required preserving.
He saw the hippies on TV that spring, demonstrating or something. It never mattered to him what they were doing. It was the hippies themselves who fascinated him. They wore no suits, no ties. Their loose, unbuttoned shirts flowed under necklaces and beads. They topped ragged denim with stretched out T-shirts, went without shirts at all, or covered their bare chests with leather vests. Flowers lived in their ragged beards, scarves threaded their wild hair.
“They look like sissies,” his wife would say.
He did not always remember to nod in agreement.
He watched their hair moving in the breeze, overflowing their shoulders. They were always outside, standing at ease with one hip out, sprawling on the ground, or dancing. They draped their arms over young doe-eyed girls. Girls wearing loose, long skirts that swept the ground, hair blowing free of whatever it was that his wife used to corral hers.
“Cool, man,” they say, as if all the rage and terror and weight that possessed everyone else had trickled out of them, leaving them free. They’d look directly into the camera for only a moment before staring off into the distance at something he too wished he could see.
He touched the stubble at the back of his neck, looked over at his wife, her hair trapped under a hard, coated shell. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had his fingers in her hair. It seemed a fortress impenetrable.
He thought about joining the hippies. Hell, he was well past 40 now. Surely, he had some wisdom to impart. But even as he said it to himself, he knew that if there were any sage advice to be had, they were the ones in possession of it. Still the hippies were supposed to believe in free love, whatever that meant. Maybe it meant love for someone like him without the cost he had paid to buy it.
He wondered if it was really love he had bought in his marriage.
In those passionate days and nights before the war when everything seemed like it might be lost at any moment, it had seemed like love. But, after, when the war had been won and though lots of things were lost, he was not, he came home and married her, and he wondered now if the ceremony in the church had more to do with a mortgage signing than love. He was certain he had married the house, the children, the job, the car, the lawn he mowed every Saturday. But the girl he had clasped to him in the days before the war, well, he didn’t know where she had gone, but she wasn’t his wife.
He didn’t blame her. She had lost two brothers and an uncle and had been through the privations of a home front at war. She was burnished by her experience, hardened into something he had at first thought beautiful but now knew to be just hard.
At night, he dreamed of her walking barefoot toward him in a field wearing a long, white dress. Her long hair trailed behind her like wings, a daisy tucked behind one ear. He woke up to realize it wasn’t his wife he had dreamed of.
By the time the heat registers stopped forcing hot air into his lungs, he had a backpack stashed in the garage where she would never see it. A thick roll of twenties was stuffed in the toe of one of his army boots. A couple of old flannels were crammed in next to some T-shirts and underwear his wife would never miss from the wash. He bought a pair of work pants at the Army/Navy and three pairs of new socks. There was a pocketknife, a canteen, his blanket from the service, and an old jacket she had told him to give away.
On the morning he pretended to be sick, she went to church alone. He retrieved the backpack, added a jar of peanut butter and some crackers, and dressed himself from the pack. He took everything out of his wallet, except for the cash and his driver’s license, and slid it into his pocket. It—he—felt thinner, slim, primed for action.
The rest of the contents of his wallet lay heavy in his hand. The plastic cards issued by hotel and gas companies proclaimed Delbert Leander III a big man, worthy to procure services at worthy establishments that his respectable employer would pay for. The fifty or so commercially printed business cards of fifty or so other men just like him carried the names of their fathers and bore the respectability of their positions, in their respective, respectable companies. A Who’s Who of the earth movers and world builders of the city. Solid respectable men who went to work every day in suits just like the ones hanging in his closet, in cars just like the one his wife had driven to church. How many men in this city carried his cards in their wallets?
He went into the spare bedroom, empty since the last child had left home. The cat eyed him from a fat pile of black fur on the white chenille bedspread.
He knelt on the floor and popped the register cover off. He shoved Delbert Leander The Third’s identity into the heating duct. The cards disappeared into the blackness below. He replaced the register, shouldered the pack, walked out the back door, and hopped the fence into the woods.
“All these windows,” his wife would say. “What were they thinking with all these windows?”
Del would scooch his chair away from the hot breath of the furnace laboring to keep the house warm and stare out all those windows at the cool, white snow.
That was the winter he changed his name. He had been called Del before, by his school pals and in the army, but it was his legal name, Delbert Leander III, his father’s name, that bullied him from every piece of correspondence that crossed his desk. Delbert Leander The Third kept its eye on him, reminded him daily, as his parents had done, that he was destined for great things. Delbert The First and Delbert The Second had been great men, and he was expected to pile up great loads of cash and security just as they had done.
The judge asked only two questions. “Are you doing this for any illegal purposes?” And, “Will changing your name hurt anyone?” The answer to the first was easy. The second, harder. He suspected his wife would not be happy, that this could even be construed as hurt. Hurt that he would cause her. But he half entertained the vain hope that she might, just might, think it was cool. Well, not cool. Cool to her was still a word for describing the evening air after a hot day or the moment the pie was ready to eat. It was not a word for an idea, or a lifestyle. But he couldn’t quite give up the thought. After all, she had understood him once.
But when the first piece of mail addressed to just plain Del Leander arrived, she scoffed. “How darned informal everyone is getting!” He grimaced, but she didn’t see it. “It’s those hippies. They’ve got no respect for decent people.”
Del thought the hippies might have got the right idea, but he didn’t say so. Later he would try to convince himself he had been trying to be kind, or polite, but even then he knew it was just cowardice.
When the snow finally melted and bits of green showed outside all those windows, he couldn’t get them open fast enough. The furnace pumped out even more blazing hot air. His wife closed the windows.
“Who opened this?” she would say, never waiting for an answer.
It was plain it could only have been him. The children were gone; the cat couldn’t have done it. Years later he would wonder why she never asked him why he did it. At the time he didn’t think it strange. She never asked him why he did anything.
He felt the sweat every morning when he, encased in a crisply ironed shirt and tie, hung his suit jacket in the car and squeezed behind the driver’s seat. He strapped himself into the seat belt, his wife’s requirement, necessary to preserve life in case of a crash. He opened the window and sucked in as much cold spring air as he could, carefully combing his hair back into place before each sales call. At the end of the day, even hotter, he would buckle himself in and open all the windows for the drive home. Later he would wonder why he thought the life he was living back then required preserving.
He saw the hippies on TV that spring, demonstrating or something. It never mattered to him what they were doing. It was the hippies themselves who fascinated him. They wore no suits, no ties. Their loose, unbuttoned shirts flowed under necklaces and beads. They topped ragged denim with stretched out T-shirts, went without shirts at all, or covered their bare chests with leather vests. Flowers lived in their ragged beards, scarves threaded their wild hair.
“They look like sissies,” his wife would say.
He did not always remember to nod in agreement.
He watched their hair moving in the breeze, overflowing their shoulders. They were always outside, standing at ease with one hip out, sprawling on the ground, or dancing. They draped their arms over young doe-eyed girls. Girls wearing loose, long skirts that swept the ground, hair blowing free of whatever it was that his wife used to corral hers.
“Cool, man,” they say, as if all the rage and terror and weight that possessed everyone else had trickled out of them, leaving them free. They’d look directly into the camera for only a moment before staring off into the distance at something he too wished he could see.
He touched the stubble at the back of his neck, looked over at his wife, her hair trapped under a hard, coated shell. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had his fingers in her hair. It seemed a fortress impenetrable.
He thought about joining the hippies. Hell, he was well past 40 now. Surely, he had some wisdom to impart. But even as he said it to himself, he knew that if there were any sage advice to be had, they were the ones in possession of it. Still the hippies were supposed to believe in free love, whatever that meant. Maybe it meant love for someone like him without the cost he had paid to buy it.
He wondered if it was really love he had bought in his marriage.
In those passionate days and nights before the war when everything seemed like it might be lost at any moment, it had seemed like love. But, after, when the war had been won and though lots of things were lost, he was not, he came home and married her, and he wondered now if the ceremony in the church had more to do with a mortgage signing than love. He was certain he had married the house, the children, the job, the car, the lawn he mowed every Saturday. But the girl he had clasped to him in the days before the war, well, he didn’t know where she had gone, but she wasn’t his wife.
He didn’t blame her. She had lost two brothers and an uncle and had been through the privations of a home front at war. She was burnished by her experience, hardened into something he had at first thought beautiful but now knew to be just hard.
At night, he dreamed of her walking barefoot toward him in a field wearing a long, white dress. Her long hair trailed behind her like wings, a daisy tucked behind one ear. He woke up to realize it wasn’t his wife he had dreamed of.
By the time the heat registers stopped forcing hot air into his lungs, he had a backpack stashed in the garage where she would never see it. A thick roll of twenties was stuffed in the toe of one of his army boots. A couple of old flannels were crammed in next to some T-shirts and underwear his wife would never miss from the wash. He bought a pair of work pants at the Army/Navy and three pairs of new socks. There was a pocketknife, a canteen, his blanket from the service, and an old jacket she had told him to give away.
On the morning he pretended to be sick, she went to church alone. He retrieved the backpack, added a jar of peanut butter and some crackers, and dressed himself from the pack. He took everything out of his wallet, except for the cash and his driver’s license, and slid it into his pocket. It—he—felt thinner, slim, primed for action.
The rest of the contents of his wallet lay heavy in his hand. The plastic cards issued by hotel and gas companies proclaimed Delbert Leander III a big man, worthy to procure services at worthy establishments that his respectable employer would pay for. The fifty or so commercially printed business cards of fifty or so other men just like him carried the names of their fathers and bore the respectability of their positions, in their respective, respectable companies. A Who’s Who of the earth movers and world builders of the city. Solid respectable men who went to work every day in suits just like the ones hanging in his closet, in cars just like the one his wife had driven to church. How many men in this city carried his cards in their wallets?
He went into the spare bedroom, empty since the last child had left home. The cat eyed him from a fat pile of black fur on the white chenille bedspread.
He knelt on the floor and popped the register cover off. He shoved Delbert Leander The Third’s identity into the heating duct. The cards disappeared into the blackness below. He replaced the register, shouldered the pack, walked out the back door, and hopped the fence into the woods.
Second Place: The Hunt
Naomi Wark
A single shot shattered the silence. Max covered her ears. A bitter odor mingled with the fresh air where thirty feet ahead, her father lowered his rifle. She stood as frozen as the pond near their house. She knew better than to speak or move before Daddy motioned the okay.
“Got him.” Her father, Ralph Kirkwood, turned with a smile. “It’s a bull, and a big one at that.”
To appease her father, Max clapped her hands despite the topsy-turvy churning in her stomach. Her father raised his index finger to his lips. He tipped his head and listened for any sound, any indication the shot was not fatal. At twelve, Max knew the danger of approaching a wounded animal of such size. An angry bull elk could charge and severely injure, if not kill, the incautious hunter. The frosty morning air invigorated Max, but she detested the reason for her early rousing.
Her father motioned her closer. “Ready?”
Max nodded and pushed aside the branches of the fir and aspen trees as she followed him in the direction of his target. From the branches, jays jeered and scolded her, guilting her for her role in the kill. A hundred feet ahead, faint labored breathing came from a small clearing in the otherwise silent forest. Max stared at the helpless bleeding animal. Her lips quivered at the sight of its large brown pleading eyes.
Ralph Kirkwood pushed his daughter behind him. “Stay back.”
“What are you doing?”
“It’s in pain. I have to put it out of its misery.” Her father plodded toward the dying beast. “Turn around and cover your ears.”
With barely time to obey, her father raised his rifle in one swift movement. Max winced at the second of death and looked up to the sky. Aspen and maple leaves floated delicately to the ground, a contrast to the harshness of the action. She wiped a tear with her oversized blue mitten. Daddy wouldn’t stand for any tears. Hunting was a means to an end. The elk would be the primary source of meat for her and her parents. Free meat meant there would be money for other goods, which the family sometimes did without when her father’s furniture sales were slow. Max looked down at her green woolen jacket that warmed her but was only another one of her mother’s thrift shop finds. Her well-worn jeans, a tad long, even rolled up at the ankle, were a hand-me-down from her cousin Maureen. The meat would allow some new clothes and maybe even fabric for her mother to sew a new dress. The echoes of the shot died down. Max stepped closer to the beast whose life was sacrificed so she could eat sausage and steaks and be better dressed.
“He’s a beauty, ain’t he?” Mr. Kirkwood patted Max on the back. “We’ll have plenty of meat this year. Your mom will be proud.”
Liquid life pooled around the entry wound, staining the ground a deep scarlet hue not too dissimilar to the crimson maple leaves carpeting the forest floor. The cool morning air mixed with the sickly smell of death. Max gagged and stepped back. Though her father never intended to be mean, he laughed. He had a way of belittling her, toughening her up as he called it. Max frowned, turned, and started to run off.
"Come back. You’ll get lost.”
Her father was right; she couldn’t find her way back to the truck on her own. She stopped, plopped to the ground, and sulked. He strode over to her and shook his head. “You’re going to be thirteen in a few weeks, don’t you think it’s time you get over your childishness? It’s about time you learn to use a gun.”
Max forced a smile. She remembered how her hand trembled when Daddy let her hold his rifle after cleaning it. She hated the idea of killing animals. She hated the smell of sulfur and the loud crack that fractured the crisp Montana air, and she certainly hated the smell of death, all bitter and vile and final. But Max knew as the only child of Ralph and Norma Kirkwood, guns and hunting were a destiny she would be obliged to fulfill. She also knew better than to tell her father she didn’t like the idea of killing living things, even if it meant food for the family. For her father, she was the son he wished for.
The moment their old pickup truck rolled to a stop at home, Max flung open the car door and rushed toward the house. She hugged her mother around the waist, then dashed to the bathroom to wash the odor of death away.
###
Flashbacks of her morning hunt haunted Max’s nights for days, but she finally put the unpleasant experience behind her and awoke rested. She pulled back the pink curtains that she pleaded with her mother to sew, though her father insisted they were an unnecessary extravagance. Outside, a clear sky welcomed her thirteenth birthday and, in the kitchen, a breakfast of eggs, toast, and elk sausage greeted her. A flash of the dead animal strobed in her head.
Her father handed her a rectangular box wrapped with butcher paper. “Happy Birthday, Max.”
Confused by the size and weight, she knew it wasn’t either the watch or the camera she dreamed of getting. She shook it. Her stomach sank as she contemplated the contents. She hesitated, then tore open the paper. She paused to inhale before she removed the cover. Her stomach sank. She forced a weak smile. “It’s a gun.”
Mr. Kirkwood grinned. “It’s not just a gun. It’s a Winchester 30-30. Now I can teach you how to shoot. You can join me on my next hunt. Maybe you’ll come back with your first kill.”
Max struggled to avoid her mother’s gaze; afraid she would cry. “Thank you, Daddy.”
For the following weeks, after schoolwork, Daddy insisted she practice shooting at the range behind his workshop. Each day she studied longer to delay the unpleasant chore. Each night she prayed she would never have to raise the gun to a living animal. When she received her report card the following month, Max beamed. Her studying had paid off. It would give her an excuse to avoid the shooting range and maybe even the dreaded hunting trip. She rushed home and waved her report card in front of her mother.
“Three A’s and 2 B’s, that’s wonderful. Your father’s in his workshop. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. But don’t interrupt him while he’s working.”
With the old barn turned into his workshop, her father built what everyone in town called some of the finest furniture in the mid-west. She wished he made enough money selling furniture so he didn’t have to hunt. He loved his work, and when he worked, he became so absorbed that he lost sight of anything else. Max knew the dangers. He’d drilled it into her. The electric saw and sanding instruments were powerful enough to cut even the hardest wood. She knew the damage they could cause to human flesh.
Max bolted to the workshop and flung open the door. “Daddy, guess what?”
The buzz of the blade ripping through wood drowned out her voice. Her father spun around at the intrusion. He spotted his daughter in the doorway for only a moment before his face contorted in dread and agony. Max stared in horror as she struggled to understand what had happened. The whine from the saw ceased. Her father slumped to the ground clutching his right arm. Crimson liquid soaked his twisted and ragged shirt, with her father’s arm torn and tangled within the ripped cloth.
In his eyes, pure terror. “Call the fire department. Tell them to hurry.” His voice cracked but remained calm. Blood puddled on the wood before seeping between the floorboards. Max opened her mouth to apologize, but her words caught in her throat. How could she ever apologize for this?
“Max, please.” Her father’s voice sounded raspier, weaker, more commanding.
The sparkle in his eyes flickered like a light about to go out. She saw the same look of helplessness, hopelessness in her father’s eyes as she’d seen in the elk’s eyes. Its pleading look right before her father lifted his rifle and fired. She saw her father’s pain, his will to live. Then his eyes fluttered closed. Was he dying? Was he dead? If he died, she would never again have to hunt. Hadn’t that been her prayer? Would his death haunt her as the elk did?
Her father’s eyes opened a slit. His life was in her hands, as her father held the elk’s life in his. She stared at her father’s mangled arm. She doubted he would ever raise a gun again. She rushed toward the door, then stopped and looked back. “My name is Maxine, not Max.”
“Got him.” Her father, Ralph Kirkwood, turned with a smile. “It’s a bull, and a big one at that.”
To appease her father, Max clapped her hands despite the topsy-turvy churning in her stomach. Her father raised his index finger to his lips. He tipped his head and listened for any sound, any indication the shot was not fatal. At twelve, Max knew the danger of approaching a wounded animal of such size. An angry bull elk could charge and severely injure, if not kill, the incautious hunter. The frosty morning air invigorated Max, but she detested the reason for her early rousing.
Her father motioned her closer. “Ready?”
Max nodded and pushed aside the branches of the fir and aspen trees as she followed him in the direction of his target. From the branches, jays jeered and scolded her, guilting her for her role in the kill. A hundred feet ahead, faint labored breathing came from a small clearing in the otherwise silent forest. Max stared at the helpless bleeding animal. Her lips quivered at the sight of its large brown pleading eyes.
Ralph Kirkwood pushed his daughter behind him. “Stay back.”
“What are you doing?”
“It’s in pain. I have to put it out of its misery.” Her father plodded toward the dying beast. “Turn around and cover your ears.”
With barely time to obey, her father raised his rifle in one swift movement. Max winced at the second of death and looked up to the sky. Aspen and maple leaves floated delicately to the ground, a contrast to the harshness of the action. She wiped a tear with her oversized blue mitten. Daddy wouldn’t stand for any tears. Hunting was a means to an end. The elk would be the primary source of meat for her and her parents. Free meat meant there would be money for other goods, which the family sometimes did without when her father’s furniture sales were slow. Max looked down at her green woolen jacket that warmed her but was only another one of her mother’s thrift shop finds. Her well-worn jeans, a tad long, even rolled up at the ankle, were a hand-me-down from her cousin Maureen. The meat would allow some new clothes and maybe even fabric for her mother to sew a new dress. The echoes of the shot died down. Max stepped closer to the beast whose life was sacrificed so she could eat sausage and steaks and be better dressed.
“He’s a beauty, ain’t he?” Mr. Kirkwood patted Max on the back. “We’ll have plenty of meat this year. Your mom will be proud.”
Liquid life pooled around the entry wound, staining the ground a deep scarlet hue not too dissimilar to the crimson maple leaves carpeting the forest floor. The cool morning air mixed with the sickly smell of death. Max gagged and stepped back. Though her father never intended to be mean, he laughed. He had a way of belittling her, toughening her up as he called it. Max frowned, turned, and started to run off.
"Come back. You’ll get lost.”
Her father was right; she couldn’t find her way back to the truck on her own. She stopped, plopped to the ground, and sulked. He strode over to her and shook his head. “You’re going to be thirteen in a few weeks, don’t you think it’s time you get over your childishness? It’s about time you learn to use a gun.”
Max forced a smile. She remembered how her hand trembled when Daddy let her hold his rifle after cleaning it. She hated the idea of killing animals. She hated the smell of sulfur and the loud crack that fractured the crisp Montana air, and she certainly hated the smell of death, all bitter and vile and final. But Max knew as the only child of Ralph and Norma Kirkwood, guns and hunting were a destiny she would be obliged to fulfill. She also knew better than to tell her father she didn’t like the idea of killing living things, even if it meant food for the family. For her father, she was the son he wished for.
The moment their old pickup truck rolled to a stop at home, Max flung open the car door and rushed toward the house. She hugged her mother around the waist, then dashed to the bathroom to wash the odor of death away.
###
Flashbacks of her morning hunt haunted Max’s nights for days, but she finally put the unpleasant experience behind her and awoke rested. She pulled back the pink curtains that she pleaded with her mother to sew, though her father insisted they were an unnecessary extravagance. Outside, a clear sky welcomed her thirteenth birthday and, in the kitchen, a breakfast of eggs, toast, and elk sausage greeted her. A flash of the dead animal strobed in her head.
Her father handed her a rectangular box wrapped with butcher paper. “Happy Birthday, Max.”
Confused by the size and weight, she knew it wasn’t either the watch or the camera she dreamed of getting. She shook it. Her stomach sank as she contemplated the contents. She hesitated, then tore open the paper. She paused to inhale before she removed the cover. Her stomach sank. She forced a weak smile. “It’s a gun.”
Mr. Kirkwood grinned. “It’s not just a gun. It’s a Winchester 30-30. Now I can teach you how to shoot. You can join me on my next hunt. Maybe you’ll come back with your first kill.”
Max struggled to avoid her mother’s gaze; afraid she would cry. “Thank you, Daddy.”
For the following weeks, after schoolwork, Daddy insisted she practice shooting at the range behind his workshop. Each day she studied longer to delay the unpleasant chore. Each night she prayed she would never have to raise the gun to a living animal. When she received her report card the following month, Max beamed. Her studying had paid off. It would give her an excuse to avoid the shooting range and maybe even the dreaded hunting trip. She rushed home and waved her report card in front of her mother.
“Three A’s and 2 B’s, that’s wonderful. Your father’s in his workshop. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. But don’t interrupt him while he’s working.”
With the old barn turned into his workshop, her father built what everyone in town called some of the finest furniture in the mid-west. She wished he made enough money selling furniture so he didn’t have to hunt. He loved his work, and when he worked, he became so absorbed that he lost sight of anything else. Max knew the dangers. He’d drilled it into her. The electric saw and sanding instruments were powerful enough to cut even the hardest wood. She knew the damage they could cause to human flesh.
Max bolted to the workshop and flung open the door. “Daddy, guess what?”
The buzz of the blade ripping through wood drowned out her voice. Her father spun around at the intrusion. He spotted his daughter in the doorway for only a moment before his face contorted in dread and agony. Max stared in horror as she struggled to understand what had happened. The whine from the saw ceased. Her father slumped to the ground clutching his right arm. Crimson liquid soaked his twisted and ragged shirt, with her father’s arm torn and tangled within the ripped cloth.
In his eyes, pure terror. “Call the fire department. Tell them to hurry.” His voice cracked but remained calm. Blood puddled on the wood before seeping between the floorboards. Max opened her mouth to apologize, but her words caught in her throat. How could she ever apologize for this?
“Max, please.” Her father’s voice sounded raspier, weaker, more commanding.
The sparkle in his eyes flickered like a light about to go out. She saw the same look of helplessness, hopelessness in her father’s eyes as she’d seen in the elk’s eyes. Its pleading look right before her father lifted his rifle and fired. She saw her father’s pain, his will to live. Then his eyes fluttered closed. Was he dying? Was he dead? If he died, she would never again have to hunt. Hadn’t that been her prayer? Would his death haunt her as the elk did?
Her father’s eyes opened a slit. His life was in her hands, as her father held the elk’s life in his. She stared at her father’s mangled arm. She doubted he would ever raise a gun again. She rushed toward the door, then stopped and looked back. “My name is Maxine, not Max.”
Honorable Mentions
Sleight of Hand Tom Frank
“I had a superpower once, but it tweren’t no good.”
Harley rolled her eyes. Gramps was off again.
“Just like those comic book heroes you kids admire.”
“What was it?” Cody asked, wide-eyed and eager. Harley elbowed her little brother. Didn’t he know Gramps was pulling his leg? Eight-year-olds were so dumb.
“Lotta folks go in for x-ray vision or flying. I knew a fella had super-hearing. Got so noisy in his head he couldn’t sleep nights.” Gramps moved his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, took it out, and pointed the stem at Cody. “I wanted sumthin’ practical that I could use when I wanted and forget about when I didn’t.”
“Was it super strength?” Cody persisted. “Could you pull a tractor?”
“Now why would I want to do a fool thing like that? Sounds too much like work.” He put the pipe in his mouth, worked it around before taking it out again. “I figured a superpower ought to make your life easier, comfortable-like.”
“I bet you could read minds,” Cody said. “Just like mom. She always knows what I’m doing and thinking. She probably got that from you.”
Harley thought it over, interested in spite of her superior ten-year-old intellect. She’d know what her teacher was thinking, who she’d call on next, both the questions and the answers.
“Your mom’s pretty smart, that’s for sure. But no, that wasn’t it. Same problem with hearing thoughts as hearing sounds, no way to turn it on and off. Drive a fool batty. Harley, fetch me that tobacco pouch on the shelf.”
Harley did as she was told. Gramps fiddled with his pipe and sat puffing contentedly.
“If you kids weren’t here, I’d have to get up and get that myself. If I forgot the matches, I’d have to get up again. So much easier to see a thing and wish it into my hand.”
“Ooh,” Cody crooned. “That’d be great. Like Thor and his hammer. I could get the Xbox controller before Harley or grab the last cookie.”
Gramps nodded. “I was about your age when it happened. My Halloween candy was hidden in a kitchen cabinet. A big bag of chocolate bars, candy corn, and jaw breakers. Way up out of reach. I stood on a stool, stretched my arm as far as I could but it was no use. I wanted that candy bad. I made a fist and shook it. The bag twitched. It shimmied. Its sides went in and out like it was breathing. The next I knew, it tipped over the edge and fell on me. Candy was everywhere.” He relaxed in his recliner, eyes closed, smiling around the pipe.
Harley and Cody waited. Surely there was more?
Gramps eyes popped open like he’d just woke from a nap.
“I knew I had something but needed to practice. I started with a pencil, darn thing stuck me in the palm. Glad I hadn’t started with a knife. I moved on to spoons. The problem was getting my hand in place to catch it or knock it down. Sometimes they came fast, depending on how far away they were. I used a catcher’s glove for protection.”
Cody sat cross-legged at Gramps’ feet. Harley had sidled closer, pretending to be bored but hanging on every word.
“I got good with small stuff, coins, stones, and books.” Gramps chuckled. “Long about Christmas I went snooping for presents. Found a large box tucked away on a closet shelf. I held out my arms and wished it to move. I didn’t know a package of ornaments was on top. When the big box fell down the other one did too. Landed on my head and crashed on the floor. Made a terrible racket. I heard someone come running so I grabbed a broom like I’d been using it to reach the shelf. Caught a bit of heck that day.”
“Is that when you gave it up?” Harley asked.
“Nah, I kept at it. That summer a group of us went swimming in the river. I wandered away to a fishing hole I knew. Thought I’d try my luck. Didn’t have a line or hook or bait. I laid on the bank watching. I saw a big trout nosing around. I reached out my hand. The trout stopped swimming, even though the fins flapped and the gills pumped. Sweat poured off me but the fish stayed where it was. With a sudden whoosh of water, it flew at me, struck my face, and flopped down beside me.”
“Did you keep the fish, Gramps?” Cody wanted to know.
“I tossed him back in—didn’t have a fishing license. Anyhow, when school started up a pretty girl moved to town. My pal Ricky Faber and I were sweet on her. I thought she liked Ricky more, so I decided to get him into trouble. He sat behind her and I sat behind him. I held my arm below the desk and wished that long brown ponytail tied with a red ribbon was in my hand. Her hair swung a little left and right, lifted off her back, and started to point in my direction. I gave it a tug. Her head jerked and she yelled. She turned on Ricky who sat there without a clue what had happened.
“A few minutes passed, then I started again. I focused on the ribbon. Since Ricky sat between us, the ribbon dropped right in his lap. Naturally, he picked it up. She was sure mad! That was the end of the rivalry.”
Gramps puffed his pipe, lost in thought until Harley nudged him.
“Ricky knew I’d pulled one over on him somehow, and he started trailing me, spied on me like some James Bond or Illya Kuryaken character. Caught me practicing in the alley one afternoon, throwing a rubber hardball against a brick wall. No matter what crazy bounce it took, it landed in my mitt. When one bounced high over my head, stopped in mid-air, and fell right to me he pounced. I told him I was just that good but he didn’t buy it. Spent the rest of the day testing me. At supper time, he went home saying he had an idea how we could use this trick.”
Harley saw Gramps frown and figured this must have been when the trouble started.
“Ricky and me were in a church basketball league, played on the same team. We weren’t short but the other teams had some tall players. Ricky had a plan and needed me to make it work. It was fun at first. Shots headed for the basket changed mid-flight, passes were mysteriously deflected. I didn’t have to be on the court. No one figured out how we’d done it but somehow they knew I was responsible. The basketball always moved in my direction. I think Ricky might have bragged once too often. I told him I was through and quit the team.”
Thinking the story was over, Harley started to get up when Gramps spoke again:
“A big snowfall came that Thanksgiving. Ricky was mad at me, caught me walking home with the girl from school. There was some name-calling, then snowballs started flying. The darn superpower didn’t help me at all. Ricky kept lobbing snowballs at me from under the eaves of his house. I could see the snow piled on the roof above his head and wished for it to fall off. I saw the edge crumble. Loose flakes rose up like an icy cloud. I concentrated on the whole roof and just as it started to lift, I stopped–but it didn’t. The entire load slid off the roof and buried Ricky.”
Cody’s eyes were like saucers and Harley’s mouth hung open.
“There must have been five feet of snow piled on him. I ran over but wasn’t sure where he was. I tried wishing it off but it was too powdery. I started digging. My hand found a black boot. I had to get Ricky out of there and focused on the boot. I saw it move an instant before it smacked me in the forehead. Idiot. I wanted my friend, not his boot. I saw a striped sock and the cuff of his jeans. I wished the whole boy under that snow pile to come to me, harder than I ever had. Like a geyser, the snow flew into the air and Ricky zoomed at me. We tumbled and he ended up on top, ice crystals stuck to his lashes and spitting snow.”
Gramps leaned back in his chair.
“I gave up my superpower after that.”
Cody and Harley headed outside, debating what power they’d want. The afternoon light faded and the room grew dark. “Hey Maude,” Gramps called. “Come turn the lights on.” No answer. “Maude?”
Muttering, Gramps pointed at the switch on the wall behind the tv. A flip of his index finger and the room was bathed in light.
Harley rolled her eyes. Gramps was off again.
“Just like those comic book heroes you kids admire.”
“What was it?” Cody asked, wide-eyed and eager. Harley elbowed her little brother. Didn’t he know Gramps was pulling his leg? Eight-year-olds were so dumb.
“Lotta folks go in for x-ray vision or flying. I knew a fella had super-hearing. Got so noisy in his head he couldn’t sleep nights.” Gramps moved his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, took it out, and pointed the stem at Cody. “I wanted sumthin’ practical that I could use when I wanted and forget about when I didn’t.”
“Was it super strength?” Cody persisted. “Could you pull a tractor?”
“Now why would I want to do a fool thing like that? Sounds too much like work.” He put the pipe in his mouth, worked it around before taking it out again. “I figured a superpower ought to make your life easier, comfortable-like.”
“I bet you could read minds,” Cody said. “Just like mom. She always knows what I’m doing and thinking. She probably got that from you.”
Harley thought it over, interested in spite of her superior ten-year-old intellect. She’d know what her teacher was thinking, who she’d call on next, both the questions and the answers.
“Your mom’s pretty smart, that’s for sure. But no, that wasn’t it. Same problem with hearing thoughts as hearing sounds, no way to turn it on and off. Drive a fool batty. Harley, fetch me that tobacco pouch on the shelf.”
Harley did as she was told. Gramps fiddled with his pipe and sat puffing contentedly.
“If you kids weren’t here, I’d have to get up and get that myself. If I forgot the matches, I’d have to get up again. So much easier to see a thing and wish it into my hand.”
“Ooh,” Cody crooned. “That’d be great. Like Thor and his hammer. I could get the Xbox controller before Harley or grab the last cookie.”
Gramps nodded. “I was about your age when it happened. My Halloween candy was hidden in a kitchen cabinet. A big bag of chocolate bars, candy corn, and jaw breakers. Way up out of reach. I stood on a stool, stretched my arm as far as I could but it was no use. I wanted that candy bad. I made a fist and shook it. The bag twitched. It shimmied. Its sides went in and out like it was breathing. The next I knew, it tipped over the edge and fell on me. Candy was everywhere.” He relaxed in his recliner, eyes closed, smiling around the pipe.
Harley and Cody waited. Surely there was more?
Gramps eyes popped open like he’d just woke from a nap.
“I knew I had something but needed to practice. I started with a pencil, darn thing stuck me in the palm. Glad I hadn’t started with a knife. I moved on to spoons. The problem was getting my hand in place to catch it or knock it down. Sometimes they came fast, depending on how far away they were. I used a catcher’s glove for protection.”
Cody sat cross-legged at Gramps’ feet. Harley had sidled closer, pretending to be bored but hanging on every word.
“I got good with small stuff, coins, stones, and books.” Gramps chuckled. “Long about Christmas I went snooping for presents. Found a large box tucked away on a closet shelf. I held out my arms and wished it to move. I didn’t know a package of ornaments was on top. When the big box fell down the other one did too. Landed on my head and crashed on the floor. Made a terrible racket. I heard someone come running so I grabbed a broom like I’d been using it to reach the shelf. Caught a bit of heck that day.”
“Is that when you gave it up?” Harley asked.
“Nah, I kept at it. That summer a group of us went swimming in the river. I wandered away to a fishing hole I knew. Thought I’d try my luck. Didn’t have a line or hook or bait. I laid on the bank watching. I saw a big trout nosing around. I reached out my hand. The trout stopped swimming, even though the fins flapped and the gills pumped. Sweat poured off me but the fish stayed where it was. With a sudden whoosh of water, it flew at me, struck my face, and flopped down beside me.”
“Did you keep the fish, Gramps?” Cody wanted to know.
“I tossed him back in—didn’t have a fishing license. Anyhow, when school started up a pretty girl moved to town. My pal Ricky Faber and I were sweet on her. I thought she liked Ricky more, so I decided to get him into trouble. He sat behind her and I sat behind him. I held my arm below the desk and wished that long brown ponytail tied with a red ribbon was in my hand. Her hair swung a little left and right, lifted off her back, and started to point in my direction. I gave it a tug. Her head jerked and she yelled. She turned on Ricky who sat there without a clue what had happened.
“A few minutes passed, then I started again. I focused on the ribbon. Since Ricky sat between us, the ribbon dropped right in his lap. Naturally, he picked it up. She was sure mad! That was the end of the rivalry.”
Gramps puffed his pipe, lost in thought until Harley nudged him.
“Ricky knew I’d pulled one over on him somehow, and he started trailing me, spied on me like some James Bond or Illya Kuryaken character. Caught me practicing in the alley one afternoon, throwing a rubber hardball against a brick wall. No matter what crazy bounce it took, it landed in my mitt. When one bounced high over my head, stopped in mid-air, and fell right to me he pounced. I told him I was just that good but he didn’t buy it. Spent the rest of the day testing me. At supper time, he went home saying he had an idea how we could use this trick.”
Harley saw Gramps frown and figured this must have been when the trouble started.
“Ricky and me were in a church basketball league, played on the same team. We weren’t short but the other teams had some tall players. Ricky had a plan and needed me to make it work. It was fun at first. Shots headed for the basket changed mid-flight, passes were mysteriously deflected. I didn’t have to be on the court. No one figured out how we’d done it but somehow they knew I was responsible. The basketball always moved in my direction. I think Ricky might have bragged once too often. I told him I was through and quit the team.”
Thinking the story was over, Harley started to get up when Gramps spoke again:
“A big snowfall came that Thanksgiving. Ricky was mad at me, caught me walking home with the girl from school. There was some name-calling, then snowballs started flying. The darn superpower didn’t help me at all. Ricky kept lobbing snowballs at me from under the eaves of his house. I could see the snow piled on the roof above his head and wished for it to fall off. I saw the edge crumble. Loose flakes rose up like an icy cloud. I concentrated on the whole roof and just as it started to lift, I stopped–but it didn’t. The entire load slid off the roof and buried Ricky.”
Cody’s eyes were like saucers and Harley’s mouth hung open.
“There must have been five feet of snow piled on him. I ran over but wasn’t sure where he was. I tried wishing it off but it was too powdery. I started digging. My hand found a black boot. I had to get Ricky out of there and focused on the boot. I saw it move an instant before it smacked me in the forehead. Idiot. I wanted my friend, not his boot. I saw a striped sock and the cuff of his jeans. I wished the whole boy under that snow pile to come to me, harder than I ever had. Like a geyser, the snow flew into the air and Ricky zoomed at me. We tumbled and he ended up on top, ice crystals stuck to his lashes and spitting snow.”
Gramps leaned back in his chair.
“I gave up my superpower after that.”
Cody and Harley headed outside, debating what power they’d want. The afternoon light faded and the room grew dark. “Hey Maude,” Gramps called. “Come turn the lights on.” No answer. “Maude?”
Muttering, Gramps pointed at the switch on the wall behind the tv. A flip of his index finger and the room was bathed in light.
The Beauty Shop Linda Summersea
“Linda, hurry up! You’ll be late for the school bus!” said Mummy.
I dropped into my chair at the kitchen table and Mummy combed my hair while Sharon waited her turn. It was the finishing touch to each morning’s departure for school.
Eat cereal or tea and toast, brush teeth, get groomed.
I didn’t have any interest in hair styles and grooming, and this, most would agree, was very strange.
Remember Lisa, the character played by Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny? Remember her courtroom monologue about the auto mechanics on her father’s side of the family?
In brief, Lisa’s father was a mechanic and all of her uncles were mechanics.
Well, I can top that.
My mother was a hairdresser. My mother’s mother was a hairdresser. My mother’s two sisters were hairdressers. And, later on, my mother’s two sisters’ two daughters became hairdressers, too.
The two daughters, i.e., my two cousins, spent all their waking hours combing and setting their hair. And when they weren’t doing that, they were combing and setting the hair of their matching bleached blonde Barbies. I couldn’t have cared less about hair styling. Or Barbies. As of the age of ten, I’d still never been given a comb, or a hairbrush, or any pink plastic rollers.
My grandmother, Mémère, was the matriarch of her three-generation family business. She owned Mary’s Beauty Shop, upstairs at 186 Hamilton Street, and presided over her stylish salon with booth stations arranged in a long row. The booths were separated from each other by half-walls topped with thick, translucent, art deco glass. The sounds of water rinsing out shampoo and the hiss of hair spray cans dominated the air.
The salon didn’t take appointments, so the waiting room was always full of customers awaiting their turn from the moment the doors opened for business each day. It was a very popular place. After the dentist next door moved out (probably due to the smell of permanent wave solution), Mémère rented and remodeled his space, hired more hairdressers, and subscribed to more gossip sheets like The National Enquirer. It was always Standing Room Only in the waiting room until they locked the door at six o’clock in the evening. But that meant Mummy always returned home with apron pockets sagging beneath the weight of silver quarters, in addition to her aching feet.
By the time I visited Mémère’s beauty shop as a child in the 50s, it had been remodeled. We only got to go to the beauty shop if Babci was unable to babysit us—and Babci never went anywhere, it seemed, but once in a while we three kids got lucky enough to have a day away from the farm.
Pink and black were the in colors and the palette Mémère used for her salon. Beehive hair dryers were all the rage, and five customers at a time sat in a row beneath them with their heads set in rollers and gossip magazines spread open in their hands. When they were ready, the ladies then moved to the back of the shop where Mummy would brush out their hair styles to perfection and finish it off with a coating of lacquer-like hair spray.
On those rare beauty shop days, we sat in the reception area from 8 A.M. until 6 or 7 P.M. when the last clumps of hair were swept from the floor. It was a long day on a cold black Naugahyde sofa for an eight-year-old, as I passed the time reading about the exploits of Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher in Modern Screen while the harsh fumes of permanent wave solution stung my eyes.
. We weren’t allowed outside, except to occasionally fetch cups of “to go” coffee for the hairdressers from Nestor’s Soda Fountain and Sundries downstairs. Nestor wore a white shirt, black bowtie, and one of those white soda fountain hats creased across the middle like a WWII military man. He sold funny books. Funny books were what comic books were called in those days. But we weren’t allowed to read funny books. They were considered as trashy as pulp fiction or bodice ripper paperbacks. Mummy had thrown the fear of God in me, so I knew the drill.
“Linda, I don’t want you reading any funny books downstairs. Get the coffee and come right back.”
“Yes, I know. No funny books. Not even Donald Duck.”
Besides the coffee run, we had to be content watching my mother and my two aunts working in their adjacent booths in the beauty shop, merrily gossiping, snipping, smoking, and perming the hours away.
Sharon and I never received any hair styling services when we went to the beauty shop. We were Mummy’s guinea pigs, but she did all of our hairdressing in our kitchen. She combed our hair once in the morning before we went to school each weekday and once before church on Sundays. Between Friday morning and Sunday morning, our hair received no attention, and the result was a mess of tangles she yanked and pulled with her rat-tail comb until our eyes watered. She showed no mercy, and it was our destiny to suffer these indignities all the way through grammar school.
I had Shirley Temple hair in kindergarten—bouncy bangs with curly, medium length ringlets. As soon as my hair was long enough, Mummy gave me banana curls. Oh God—big squiggly, squashy banana curls. I twirled mine nervously all the time. Thank heavens my first-grade classmate Linda Twardzik also had banana curls. At least Mummy didn’t spray mine with perfume like Linda’s mother did. Sister didn’t like that one bit! She’d hover around us, sniffing. Who was stinking up our classroom with perfume?
After the banana curls came second grade and the D.A., which someone told me stood for duck’s ass. It looked like a duck’s rear end with short sides swept back and sprayed but it was the ass word that embarrassed me. Such a word wasn’t suitable for saying aloud.
This was followed by a poodle haircut in third grade: curly on top with floppy sides. It made me look like Mémère’s chocolate brown poodle Fifi. Fifi was a hell of a dog, but I didn’t want to look like her. During fourth and fifth grade, permanent waves were in vogue, so we went to the beauty shop for those. I tolerated it for two years, but the straw that broke the camel’s back was my sixth grade permanent. I put my 11-year-old foot down in sixth grade. I hated that permanent which, although Mummy said it looked natural, I thought was unattractive in a little old lady way.
“Natural for who?” I said. “Little Orphan Annie?”
Once, as Mummy combed and parted my wet hair in preparation for cutting, she pointed out that I had what she called a widow's peak: a hairline in the shape of a V in the middle of my forehead. When she handed me her pink plastic-framed hand mirror, I saw it. Sure enough. Damn. Now I’d always have to wear bangs. I slumped in the chair. Looking like Eddie Munster was not something I aspired to.
At last, when I was in seventh grade, the big hair movement arrived, and with it, my final childhood haircut. It was known as the bubble, and Mummy went to town teasing my hair up all over and lacquering big spit curls on the sides of my face. As her finishing touch, she clipped a little black velvet bow on top. This, I confess, was a style I wholeheartedly approved of. I looked like Annette Funicello in Beach Blanket Bingo. But it didn’t last long. When the Beatles arrived in America in 1964, and I was in the eighth grade, everything changed, including hair styles. Boy band members grew bangs. Female singers, like Joni Mitchell and Marianne Faithful and Cher, grew their hair long and straight. It was time for me to follow that trend, and Mummy didn’t mind because now she’d no longer have to style it. I even cut my own bangs—mostly successfully, once I learned you never want to cut your bangs while your hair is wet. It only took one mistake where I watched my bangs spring up to mid-forehead as they dried.
The most vivid memory I have of the Beauty Shop has absolutely nothing to do with hair. It was a comment from a stranger. I was ten, flipping through The Daily Mirror in the reception area. A lady being combed out in my mother’s booth aimed a whisper in my direction.
“She has such a beautiful smile,” she said.
Immediately I frowned with all my might. I scowled. I glared. What the heck was she talking about? I never smiled. Never! What was she getting at?
I dropped into my chair at the kitchen table and Mummy combed my hair while Sharon waited her turn. It was the finishing touch to each morning’s departure for school.
Eat cereal or tea and toast, brush teeth, get groomed.
I didn’t have any interest in hair styles and grooming, and this, most would agree, was very strange.
Remember Lisa, the character played by Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny? Remember her courtroom monologue about the auto mechanics on her father’s side of the family?
In brief, Lisa’s father was a mechanic and all of her uncles were mechanics.
Well, I can top that.
My mother was a hairdresser. My mother’s mother was a hairdresser. My mother’s two sisters were hairdressers. And, later on, my mother’s two sisters’ two daughters became hairdressers, too.
The two daughters, i.e., my two cousins, spent all their waking hours combing and setting their hair. And when they weren’t doing that, they were combing and setting the hair of their matching bleached blonde Barbies. I couldn’t have cared less about hair styling. Or Barbies. As of the age of ten, I’d still never been given a comb, or a hairbrush, or any pink plastic rollers.
My grandmother, Mémère, was the matriarch of her three-generation family business. She owned Mary’s Beauty Shop, upstairs at 186 Hamilton Street, and presided over her stylish salon with booth stations arranged in a long row. The booths were separated from each other by half-walls topped with thick, translucent, art deco glass. The sounds of water rinsing out shampoo and the hiss of hair spray cans dominated the air.
The salon didn’t take appointments, so the waiting room was always full of customers awaiting their turn from the moment the doors opened for business each day. It was a very popular place. After the dentist next door moved out (probably due to the smell of permanent wave solution), Mémère rented and remodeled his space, hired more hairdressers, and subscribed to more gossip sheets like The National Enquirer. It was always Standing Room Only in the waiting room until they locked the door at six o’clock in the evening. But that meant Mummy always returned home with apron pockets sagging beneath the weight of silver quarters, in addition to her aching feet.
By the time I visited Mémère’s beauty shop as a child in the 50s, it had been remodeled. We only got to go to the beauty shop if Babci was unable to babysit us—and Babci never went anywhere, it seemed, but once in a while we three kids got lucky enough to have a day away from the farm.
Pink and black were the in colors and the palette Mémère used for her salon. Beehive hair dryers were all the rage, and five customers at a time sat in a row beneath them with their heads set in rollers and gossip magazines spread open in their hands. When they were ready, the ladies then moved to the back of the shop where Mummy would brush out their hair styles to perfection and finish it off with a coating of lacquer-like hair spray.
On those rare beauty shop days, we sat in the reception area from 8 A.M. until 6 or 7 P.M. when the last clumps of hair were swept from the floor. It was a long day on a cold black Naugahyde sofa for an eight-year-old, as I passed the time reading about the exploits of Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher in Modern Screen while the harsh fumes of permanent wave solution stung my eyes.
. We weren’t allowed outside, except to occasionally fetch cups of “to go” coffee for the hairdressers from Nestor’s Soda Fountain and Sundries downstairs. Nestor wore a white shirt, black bowtie, and one of those white soda fountain hats creased across the middle like a WWII military man. He sold funny books. Funny books were what comic books were called in those days. But we weren’t allowed to read funny books. They were considered as trashy as pulp fiction or bodice ripper paperbacks. Mummy had thrown the fear of God in me, so I knew the drill.
“Linda, I don’t want you reading any funny books downstairs. Get the coffee and come right back.”
“Yes, I know. No funny books. Not even Donald Duck.”
Besides the coffee run, we had to be content watching my mother and my two aunts working in their adjacent booths in the beauty shop, merrily gossiping, snipping, smoking, and perming the hours away.
Sharon and I never received any hair styling services when we went to the beauty shop. We were Mummy’s guinea pigs, but she did all of our hairdressing in our kitchen. She combed our hair once in the morning before we went to school each weekday and once before church on Sundays. Between Friday morning and Sunday morning, our hair received no attention, and the result was a mess of tangles she yanked and pulled with her rat-tail comb until our eyes watered. She showed no mercy, and it was our destiny to suffer these indignities all the way through grammar school.
I had Shirley Temple hair in kindergarten—bouncy bangs with curly, medium length ringlets. As soon as my hair was long enough, Mummy gave me banana curls. Oh God—big squiggly, squashy banana curls. I twirled mine nervously all the time. Thank heavens my first-grade classmate Linda Twardzik also had banana curls. At least Mummy didn’t spray mine with perfume like Linda’s mother did. Sister didn’t like that one bit! She’d hover around us, sniffing. Who was stinking up our classroom with perfume?
After the banana curls came second grade and the D.A., which someone told me stood for duck’s ass. It looked like a duck’s rear end with short sides swept back and sprayed but it was the ass word that embarrassed me. Such a word wasn’t suitable for saying aloud.
This was followed by a poodle haircut in third grade: curly on top with floppy sides. It made me look like Mémère’s chocolate brown poodle Fifi. Fifi was a hell of a dog, but I didn’t want to look like her. During fourth and fifth grade, permanent waves were in vogue, so we went to the beauty shop for those. I tolerated it for two years, but the straw that broke the camel’s back was my sixth grade permanent. I put my 11-year-old foot down in sixth grade. I hated that permanent which, although Mummy said it looked natural, I thought was unattractive in a little old lady way.
“Natural for who?” I said. “Little Orphan Annie?”
Once, as Mummy combed and parted my wet hair in preparation for cutting, she pointed out that I had what she called a widow's peak: a hairline in the shape of a V in the middle of my forehead. When she handed me her pink plastic-framed hand mirror, I saw it. Sure enough. Damn. Now I’d always have to wear bangs. I slumped in the chair. Looking like Eddie Munster was not something I aspired to.
At last, when I was in seventh grade, the big hair movement arrived, and with it, my final childhood haircut. It was known as the bubble, and Mummy went to town teasing my hair up all over and lacquering big spit curls on the sides of my face. As her finishing touch, she clipped a little black velvet bow on top. This, I confess, was a style I wholeheartedly approved of. I looked like Annette Funicello in Beach Blanket Bingo. But it didn’t last long. When the Beatles arrived in America in 1964, and I was in the eighth grade, everything changed, including hair styles. Boy band members grew bangs. Female singers, like Joni Mitchell and Marianne Faithful and Cher, grew their hair long and straight. It was time for me to follow that trend, and Mummy didn’t mind because now she’d no longer have to style it. I even cut my own bangs—mostly successfully, once I learned you never want to cut your bangs while your hair is wet. It only took one mistake where I watched my bangs spring up to mid-forehead as they dried.
The most vivid memory I have of the Beauty Shop has absolutely nothing to do with hair. It was a comment from a stranger. I was ten, flipping through The Daily Mirror in the reception area. A lady being combed out in my mother’s booth aimed a whisper in my direction.
“She has such a beautiful smile,” she said.
Immediately I frowned with all my might. I scowled. I glared. What the heck was she talking about? I never smiled. Never! What was she getting at?
Ghosts Neely Stratton
Before the sound of her open palm sailing through the air from her much greater height, the heft of her body swinging toward him from the kitchen sink, thwacking against his small, delicate cheekbone, leaving faint white marks in relief against his pale skin as it glanced off the stub of his dripping nose.
Before the splash of water splattered the counters, plopped against the linoleum, pinged against the bare white walls and the colorful artwork decorating the refrigerator, the bubbles singing around them and flying off her clenched hands as she swung her bulk to stare him down.
Before the sound of his whiny little voice, housed inside a frame that already highlighted familiar eyes, a cowlick near the back of his head surging upwards despite her attentions, his childish voice complaining that the carrots were rubbery, that he doesn’t like chicken on the bone, that he doesn’t want to practice his spelling words.
Before the murmured voices surrounded her, condolences offered in pastel shades of relief by other wives and mothers in this strange place, the final fading notes of Taps lingering in the sunlit graveyard, a folded flag clutched tightly against her chest, a child’s body shaking beside her.
Before the familiar masculine voice, raised in consternation, explained that it was his duty to serve his country, to accept deployment to a place where he didn’t speak the language, to kill them before they could harm her or his unborn child.
Before it was the sound of Megan’s silence. Unspoken, unstated, her resentment and her anger that he would go off to war while she struggled to raise a child conceived in young love; an arrival heralded by them both with sheer terror.
Before she was in deep isolation from an unforgiving family, trying to make a home on a military base far from the blue Kentucky mountains, a terrified young girl alone bearing a son. Megan’s continued silence during each brief visit between redeployments fed the smoldering volcano in her belly, magma bubbling and gurgling, waiting to burst forth in a kitchen one evening and pour its scalding juices on their child.
After, the sudden keening sound of his crying, her gulping tears, their mutual, aching wails satiated her; fed the beast in her belly for a moment. Her silence broken at last in a moment of action, Megan knelt, hugging him to her breast, rocking him in her grief.
After, it was easier. His voice drilling into her head, a buzzing mosquito she needed to swat; his childish fingers reaching for the last piece of buttered bread, indifferent to her efforts to provide sustenance, her energy in preparing the offering, her exhaustion in supporting them both; his lumpy, unformed body knocking into a cheap, pressboard coffee table, a glass of freshly poured wine spraying the beige carpet, the white walls, crystalline red smears.
After, his eighteenth birthday, a ringing blow to his chest, pushing so hard he lost his breath. She could no longer physically dominate him through power, but she still did through will, even as he towered over her frail form.
After, as the useless blows rained down on him, he hefted his duffel bag and dropped his house keys on the table. She cried for the first time since he was a child as he bestowed a final kiss on her forehead. In a crisp, pressed uniform, he closed the door behind him, ignoring her sobbing, screaming commands.
After, she realized he was gone, following in the footsteps of his heroic father, while her moment of breaking her silence, her discipline of him these many years to save him, her own acts of sacrifice, an exercise in futility driving him directly onto a path of which she despaired.
After, she stood in the kitchen, tears undulating down her face in dancing trails, carefully pouring herself a glass of wine from a bottomless bottle, understanding she would be left alone now with the ghost of what could have been.
Before the splash of water splattered the counters, plopped against the linoleum, pinged against the bare white walls and the colorful artwork decorating the refrigerator, the bubbles singing around them and flying off her clenched hands as she swung her bulk to stare him down.
Before the sound of his whiny little voice, housed inside a frame that already highlighted familiar eyes, a cowlick near the back of his head surging upwards despite her attentions, his childish voice complaining that the carrots were rubbery, that he doesn’t like chicken on the bone, that he doesn’t want to practice his spelling words.
Before the murmured voices surrounded her, condolences offered in pastel shades of relief by other wives and mothers in this strange place, the final fading notes of Taps lingering in the sunlit graveyard, a folded flag clutched tightly against her chest, a child’s body shaking beside her.
Before the familiar masculine voice, raised in consternation, explained that it was his duty to serve his country, to accept deployment to a place where he didn’t speak the language, to kill them before they could harm her or his unborn child.
Before it was the sound of Megan’s silence. Unspoken, unstated, her resentment and her anger that he would go off to war while she struggled to raise a child conceived in young love; an arrival heralded by them both with sheer terror.
Before she was in deep isolation from an unforgiving family, trying to make a home on a military base far from the blue Kentucky mountains, a terrified young girl alone bearing a son. Megan’s continued silence during each brief visit between redeployments fed the smoldering volcano in her belly, magma bubbling and gurgling, waiting to burst forth in a kitchen one evening and pour its scalding juices on their child.
After, the sudden keening sound of his crying, her gulping tears, their mutual, aching wails satiated her; fed the beast in her belly for a moment. Her silence broken at last in a moment of action, Megan knelt, hugging him to her breast, rocking him in her grief.
After, it was easier. His voice drilling into her head, a buzzing mosquito she needed to swat; his childish fingers reaching for the last piece of buttered bread, indifferent to her efforts to provide sustenance, her energy in preparing the offering, her exhaustion in supporting them both; his lumpy, unformed body knocking into a cheap, pressboard coffee table, a glass of freshly poured wine spraying the beige carpet, the white walls, crystalline red smears.
After, his eighteenth birthday, a ringing blow to his chest, pushing so hard he lost his breath. She could no longer physically dominate him through power, but she still did through will, even as he towered over her frail form.
After, as the useless blows rained down on him, he hefted his duffel bag and dropped his house keys on the table. She cried for the first time since he was a child as he bestowed a final kiss on her forehead. In a crisp, pressed uniform, he closed the door behind him, ignoring her sobbing, screaming commands.
After, she realized he was gone, following in the footsteps of his heroic father, while her moment of breaking her silence, her discipline of him these many years to save him, her own acts of sacrifice, an exercise in futility driving him directly onto a path of which she despaired.
After, she stood in the kitchen, tears undulating down her face in dancing trails, carefully pouring herself a glass of wine from a bottomless bottle, understanding she would be left alone now with the ghost of what could have been.
Curtains Terry Sager Shuck
The sun, a gelatinous orange blob, shimmered in the desert sky like a mirage. It slowly descended toward its nightly resting place behind the craggy peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The gap winds channeled through the canyon and began to blow.
A tumbleweed bopped in front of Izzy, freed by the winds, only to be held captive against the wire livestock fence. No livestock anymore; not really a fence anymore. Just tattered squares of rusty wire with the sole purpose of trapping errant tumbleweeds. Dust devils came to life and danced freely across the fallow fields.
Izzy’s voice was nearly lost in the wind. Mick strained to hear her. “I get tumbleweeds,” she said. “They skitter across the desert, freed by gusts of wind, but then they get trapped against a fence. Their intended destination is blocked by something they didn’t see coming and couldn’t avoid.”
Mick attempted to lighten her spirit. “I’ve always thought of you as more of a dust devil, free and wild.”
The wind delivered her reply like a whisper, “I wish. No, a tumbleweed, for sure. Always moving, restless. Trying to belong somewhere.”
Mick said, “Maybe tumbleweeds belong stuck against a fence. At least for a time.” Izzy didn’t respond so he continued. “You belong here. You belong with us.”
“Only my mom belonged here. We were the cousins who visited in the summer. We were always moving. You’ve lived here your whole life. The desert and the mountains are part of you.”
Mick scoffed. “I was so jealous of you back then. I couldn’t wait for you guys to visit and when you all left, I wanted to go with you. But I was stuck here, getting ready for chile harvest, working in the fields and the farm stand. The smell of roasting green chile was in my nose for a month after.”
“Admit it, you love that smell. I know I always did, still do. And I wanted to stay!” Izzy laughed. Another tumbleweed bounced by in a gust of wind. “There I go again, just an aimless thorny weed.”
“You would have been outta here the first time you broke a nail.” He wanted to put his arm around her shoulders, but he put his hands in his pockets, and continued down the road toward the homestead.
Izzy playfully elbowed him, “You’re probably right.”
Mick kicked a rock down the dirt road, a mosaic of parched, cracked earth. He looked to the reddening sky and said, “Look, the grass is always greener and all that. I’m just glad you’re here now, even if it’s for the funeral. I don’t think your dad’s been sober since he got here. My dad’s been with him though, and probably doing tequila shots right along with him.”
“Can’t blame them, it’s been quite a shock. When someone young dies, it’s just so unnatural.” Izzy wrapped her arms around herself. “I remember all us cousins walking this road. A bunch of scraggly urchins out all day roaming the fields, hanging out on the railroad tracks and stealing candy from the corner store.”
Mick laughed. “Yep, we were thugs, for sure. Man, those were great times!”
Izzy continued, “And just like now, right here, these cottonwood trees were here back then too—the wind rattles their leaves and it sounds like rain. From here, you can see the house. The stucco gleaming in the sun, and the white lace curtains, fluttering out the window—like they were trying to escape. No screens on the windows, nothing to keep the dust out, but Grandma had to have those crazy lace curtains.”
“Wow. The things you remember. I never noticed.” Mick wondered what else he had missed. He had never known her to be so melancholy.
Izzy stopped and pointed. “Still there. Look. The curtains hanging out the window, whipping in the wind.”
“This long journey has gotten to you, girl. I don’t see any curtains.”
“Oh, come on, Mick. Just look!”
Mick glanced at his watch. “Sorry, Iz, don’t see the curtains, but we are going to be late. But this time, they’re not waiting for us, they’re waiting for you.”
“Me? Right. Long lost forgotten cousin comes to town for a funeral. Big deal. You go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
Mick jogged up the road and climbed the red painted steps to the house. Izzy shaded her eyes with her hand and watched. The desert wind carried the squeak and slam of the screen door. Mick had ignored the woman standing in the yard by the porch. Why?
Izzy started toward the house again. The sun had slipped behind the mountains. The sky turned deep purple, like a bruise. The woman in the yard motioned to her. She hurried. Another tumbleweed flew by.
As she began to climb the steps, the woman put her arm around Izzy’s waist. She let her. This woman seemed familiar—and, well, it felt right.
“Mom? I didn’t know you’d be here. You know you’re dead, right?”
“You’re home, mija. So happy to see you again. I have missed you. Let’s go in. They’re here for you. I will see you soon.”
Arms encircling waists, they walked up the steps into the house.
Inside, as Izzy’s eyes adjusted, the familiar sounds of the family getting ready to sit down to a meal, washed over her. She caught sight of Mick. He gestured with his chin. Her gaze followed. To her right was a table beautifully decorated with pictures and flickering candles. She was puzzled at first. Then she saw it. A sign written in curli-cued calligraphy: “In Memory of Isabella.”
Izzy heard her mother’s voice. “You see? They will miss you. I wish you had known they always loved you and then maybe you would have stayed. I am sorry I wasn’t here for you, but I will be with you now. The grass is greener on the other side. You’ll see.”
The End
A tumbleweed bopped in front of Izzy, freed by the winds, only to be held captive against the wire livestock fence. No livestock anymore; not really a fence anymore. Just tattered squares of rusty wire with the sole purpose of trapping errant tumbleweeds. Dust devils came to life and danced freely across the fallow fields.
Izzy’s voice was nearly lost in the wind. Mick strained to hear her. “I get tumbleweeds,” she said. “They skitter across the desert, freed by gusts of wind, but then they get trapped against a fence. Their intended destination is blocked by something they didn’t see coming and couldn’t avoid.”
Mick attempted to lighten her spirit. “I’ve always thought of you as more of a dust devil, free and wild.”
The wind delivered her reply like a whisper, “I wish. No, a tumbleweed, for sure. Always moving, restless. Trying to belong somewhere.”
Mick said, “Maybe tumbleweeds belong stuck against a fence. At least for a time.” Izzy didn’t respond so he continued. “You belong here. You belong with us.”
“Only my mom belonged here. We were the cousins who visited in the summer. We were always moving. You’ve lived here your whole life. The desert and the mountains are part of you.”
Mick scoffed. “I was so jealous of you back then. I couldn’t wait for you guys to visit and when you all left, I wanted to go with you. But I was stuck here, getting ready for chile harvest, working in the fields and the farm stand. The smell of roasting green chile was in my nose for a month after.”
“Admit it, you love that smell. I know I always did, still do. And I wanted to stay!” Izzy laughed. Another tumbleweed bounced by in a gust of wind. “There I go again, just an aimless thorny weed.”
“You would have been outta here the first time you broke a nail.” He wanted to put his arm around her shoulders, but he put his hands in his pockets, and continued down the road toward the homestead.
Izzy playfully elbowed him, “You’re probably right.”
Mick kicked a rock down the dirt road, a mosaic of parched, cracked earth. He looked to the reddening sky and said, “Look, the grass is always greener and all that. I’m just glad you’re here now, even if it’s for the funeral. I don’t think your dad’s been sober since he got here. My dad’s been with him though, and probably doing tequila shots right along with him.”
“Can’t blame them, it’s been quite a shock. When someone young dies, it’s just so unnatural.” Izzy wrapped her arms around herself. “I remember all us cousins walking this road. A bunch of scraggly urchins out all day roaming the fields, hanging out on the railroad tracks and stealing candy from the corner store.”
Mick laughed. “Yep, we were thugs, for sure. Man, those were great times!”
Izzy continued, “And just like now, right here, these cottonwood trees were here back then too—the wind rattles their leaves and it sounds like rain. From here, you can see the house. The stucco gleaming in the sun, and the white lace curtains, fluttering out the window—like they were trying to escape. No screens on the windows, nothing to keep the dust out, but Grandma had to have those crazy lace curtains.”
“Wow. The things you remember. I never noticed.” Mick wondered what else he had missed. He had never known her to be so melancholy.
Izzy stopped and pointed. “Still there. Look. The curtains hanging out the window, whipping in the wind.”
“This long journey has gotten to you, girl. I don’t see any curtains.”
“Oh, come on, Mick. Just look!”
Mick glanced at his watch. “Sorry, Iz, don’t see the curtains, but we are going to be late. But this time, they’re not waiting for us, they’re waiting for you.”
“Me? Right. Long lost forgotten cousin comes to town for a funeral. Big deal. You go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
Mick jogged up the road and climbed the red painted steps to the house. Izzy shaded her eyes with her hand and watched. The desert wind carried the squeak and slam of the screen door. Mick had ignored the woman standing in the yard by the porch. Why?
Izzy started toward the house again. The sun had slipped behind the mountains. The sky turned deep purple, like a bruise. The woman in the yard motioned to her. She hurried. Another tumbleweed flew by.
As she began to climb the steps, the woman put her arm around Izzy’s waist. She let her. This woman seemed familiar—and, well, it felt right.
“Mom? I didn’t know you’d be here. You know you’re dead, right?”
“You’re home, mija. So happy to see you again. I have missed you. Let’s go in. They’re here for you. I will see you soon.”
Arms encircling waists, they walked up the steps into the house.
Inside, as Izzy’s eyes adjusted, the familiar sounds of the family getting ready to sit down to a meal, washed over her. She caught sight of Mick. He gestured with his chin. Her gaze followed. To her right was a table beautifully decorated with pictures and flickering candles. She was puzzled at first. Then she saw it. A sign written in curli-cued calligraphy: “In Memory of Isabella.”
Izzy heard her mother’s voice. “You see? They will miss you. I wish you had known they always loved you and then maybe you would have stayed. I am sorry I wasn’t here for you, but I will be with you now. The grass is greener on the other side. You’ll see.”
The End