2022 Writing Contest Winners
Adult Prose
First Place: Mr. Buchwald, A Memoir
by Linda Summersea Hebert
My relationship with newspapers began at the tender age of six. It was all Sister Juliana’s doing. She was my first grade teacher at St. Joseph’s and she taught me how to read on Day One, courtesy of Dick and Jane. After running our class through a few rounds of vowels—“ee-oo-o-ah-eh”—and consonants, it was our turn to repeat the sounds aloud as she tap-tapped across the blackboard with her pointer. I hung on every letter.
Long story short. Sister Juliana then showed us how to assemble the letters into words. Lo and behold—I could read.
That afternoon, as soon as our school bus rolled to a stop, I dashed down the steps and excitedly told Mummy my news.
“I can read! I can read!”
I dropped my schoolbag right there in the sand on the side of the road and pulled out Dick and Jane to demonstrate. Mummy stood by patiently in her housedress. That day she also wore a calico apron and, as usual, she wore a kid on each arm. She sighed.
“See Dick. See Jane,” I said, dragging a fingertip along the words printed on the page. “See Spot run.”
I dramatically emphasized the period as if it were an exclamation point.
“Good. That’s good,” said Mummy. She greeted the news quietly.
“But there’s more,” I said.
“You can read it to Dicky and Sharon when we get home,” Mummy said.
She turned and began to head home.
I didn’t let Mummy mute my excitement, but most days, I still lay on my bed after school and cried. I was sad. The word “depression” was not in my vocabulary.
A couple of weeks later, a random event connected the dots to further reading.
When I casually mentioned to Mummy that Sister Juliana had begun marching us to the parish church next door for Mass, she panicked.
“You didn’t tell her that you’ve never been to Mass, did you?”
“Um, no, but she did say that it was a sin—if we didn’t go every Sunday.”
The next day, Mummy brought home two identical pastel dresses from The Tot to Teen Shop. They made me and Sharon look like the little angels that we weren’t. Dicky got a new pair of pants (instead of dungarees) and a new short-sleeved cotton plaid shirt. Sure enough, on the following Sunday, not long after the rooster crowed, Mummy got us kids up and dressed, bright and early.
“Where are we going?” I dared to ask.
“To Mass,” said Mummy.
Sharon and Dicky were none too pleased, but it was obvious that before I spilled the beans to Sister Juliana regarding our heathen upbringing, we needed a crash course in Catholicism.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t a one off. We’d be going every Sunday—rain, snow, or sleet. Daddy didn’t participate in the God business and so it was unlikely that he’d be joining us. Ever.
“Linda, remind me to stop at the store so you can run in and get Daddy’s newspapers and cigarettes,” said Mummy.
I definitely—capital N, capital O—did not want this task. They still called me “cry-baby”. I couldn’t speak with adults without fear, and since Mummy was driving the car and my siblings were too young to go into the store alone, Mummy wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had no sympathy for my awkwardness.
After Mass, Mummy pulled our ’56 Plymouth station wagon up to the curb at Chet’s Smoke Shop and I got out as soon as Mummy handed me her change purse. The tiny store’s exterior walls were wood shingles that had been painted a dull red. Sort of like Red Riding Hood’s grandma’s house. This was before chain stores, before gas station convenience combos, before laws preventing children from buying cigarettes.
I pulled the thick Worcester Sunday Telegram from the news rack outside and carried it into the store, flopping it onto the low counter. Then I selected The Sunday New York Times from another rack and added it to the pile. The store was barely as big as our kitchen. The proprietor, who I assumed to be Chet himself, came around the corner, looking down upon me and my newspapers. He wore khaki pants and a cardigan sweater buttoned over his white shirt.
Every Sunday I said, “And two packs of Marlboro’s.” As he turned to get the cigarettes, I put my little stack of quarters next to the big brass cash register and looked away.
Chet would put the cigarettes on top of the newspapers, but he never said a word to me and we never made eye contact. Maybe it was obvious from my body language that I was in agony. I lifted the pile to my chest and exited quickly through the screen door by pressing my shoulder up against the Holsum Bread advertising printed on the door’s metal crossbar. Whew. Mission accomplished.
I fled to the station wagon, where I immediately peeled open the newspaper and began reading the funnies. But only after giving a double-page spread to each of my siblings, who were grappling for their share. Having run the risk of undisclosed peril, I felt I deserved first choice, the outer pages with Peanuts.
By sixth grade I had branched out into the full page ads from Gimbel’s, Tiffany’s, and Bloomingdale’s. I had to get my fashion sense somewhere.
Later, I discovered Art Buchwald’s syndicated column on the lower right corner of the editorial page below the center fold of the Evening Gazette. Buchwald’s blend of humor and Washington politics hit a sweet spot in my literary interests, and I think it’s safe to say that I was probably the only seventh grader at St. Joseph’s reading political satire. I loved his style and it encouraged my goal of someday writing words that might make people laugh. It was his column alone that inspired me to become a high school journalist for our town’s local weekly.
Due to my lack of social skills, it never dawned on me that my literary crush on Mr. Buchwald might be inappropriate, and during tenth grade, I wrote a fan letter to Mr. Buchwald in my neatest penmanship. I told him I enjoyed his column—especially his humor—and I closed with: “I would be very pleased to receive a personal letter from you.”
I addressed it to him c/o our local paper, stamped and sealed the envelope and, on my way to the bus stop, I placed the letter in our rural mailbox with the flag up.
Not long afterward, I was excited to receive a hand-typed (Courier 10) and hand-signed letter from Mr. Buchwald on a 5 x 7” sheet of engraved Washington Post letterhead. He thanked me for my letter and interest in his column, and he closed with:
“Would you like to run away to Brazil with me?”
Naïve as I was, I didn’t understand that this was his literal response to my request for a personal letter.
I brought the letter to my father, who was sitting in the living room, smoking in the dark as he often did. I saw the glowing tip of his cigarette and I turned on the table lamp at his side. He scanned the letter quickly and was clearly not amused. He handed it back to me without comment.
I wandered into the kitchen to share the letter with my mother. She wiped her hands on her apron and read it slowly. Twice. She, too, had no comment. I brought the letter upstairs to my bedroom and, after reading it a few times, I tucked it away in my oak drop-front desk. At some point, after I went away to college, my mother threw the letter away, along with six years’ worth of my London pen pal’s letters and the binder of flowery poetry I had written in seventh grade.
Mummy had no respect for the written word—mine or anyone else’s. Any newsprint left untended was destined to line the kitchen waste basket under the sink. I still remember the precise cubby in my desk where I placed Mr. Buchwald’s letter. Top cubby, all the way to the right. I remember reaching in, touching all four sides and the top, all the way to the back, then bending over to peer inside. The letter was gone, and Mummy said she didn’t know what happened to it. Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Years later, I learned that in 1963, the very year I had written to Mr. Buchwald, he had been hospitalized for severe depression. I instantly recognized the irony: a depressed young girl in Massachusetts writes a letter to her literary hero, who is also depressed. Neither, of course, knows this fact about the other. The girl addresses his humor, and he responds in kind.
His letter cheered me considerably. I can only hope that my letter cheered him. Fifty-six years later, I still wonder about our happenstance of communication.
# # #
Long story short. Sister Juliana then showed us how to assemble the letters into words. Lo and behold—I could read.
That afternoon, as soon as our school bus rolled to a stop, I dashed down the steps and excitedly told Mummy my news.
“I can read! I can read!”
I dropped my schoolbag right there in the sand on the side of the road and pulled out Dick and Jane to demonstrate. Mummy stood by patiently in her housedress. That day she also wore a calico apron and, as usual, she wore a kid on each arm. She sighed.
“See Dick. See Jane,” I said, dragging a fingertip along the words printed on the page. “See Spot run.”
I dramatically emphasized the period as if it were an exclamation point.
“Good. That’s good,” said Mummy. She greeted the news quietly.
“But there’s more,” I said.
“You can read it to Dicky and Sharon when we get home,” Mummy said.
She turned and began to head home.
I didn’t let Mummy mute my excitement, but most days, I still lay on my bed after school and cried. I was sad. The word “depression” was not in my vocabulary.
A couple of weeks later, a random event connected the dots to further reading.
When I casually mentioned to Mummy that Sister Juliana had begun marching us to the parish church next door for Mass, she panicked.
“You didn’t tell her that you’ve never been to Mass, did you?”
“Um, no, but she did say that it was a sin—if we didn’t go every Sunday.”
The next day, Mummy brought home two identical pastel dresses from The Tot to Teen Shop. They made me and Sharon look like the little angels that we weren’t. Dicky got a new pair of pants (instead of dungarees) and a new short-sleeved cotton plaid shirt. Sure enough, on the following Sunday, not long after the rooster crowed, Mummy got us kids up and dressed, bright and early.
“Where are we going?” I dared to ask.
“To Mass,” said Mummy.
Sharon and Dicky were none too pleased, but it was obvious that before I spilled the beans to Sister Juliana regarding our heathen upbringing, we needed a crash course in Catholicism.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t a one off. We’d be going every Sunday—rain, snow, or sleet. Daddy didn’t participate in the God business and so it was unlikely that he’d be joining us. Ever.
“Linda, remind me to stop at the store so you can run in and get Daddy’s newspapers and cigarettes,” said Mummy.
I definitely—capital N, capital O—did not want this task. They still called me “cry-baby”. I couldn’t speak with adults without fear, and since Mummy was driving the car and my siblings were too young to go into the store alone, Mummy wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had no sympathy for my awkwardness.
After Mass, Mummy pulled our ’56 Plymouth station wagon up to the curb at Chet’s Smoke Shop and I got out as soon as Mummy handed me her change purse. The tiny store’s exterior walls were wood shingles that had been painted a dull red. Sort of like Red Riding Hood’s grandma’s house. This was before chain stores, before gas station convenience combos, before laws preventing children from buying cigarettes.
I pulled the thick Worcester Sunday Telegram from the news rack outside and carried it into the store, flopping it onto the low counter. Then I selected The Sunday New York Times from another rack and added it to the pile. The store was barely as big as our kitchen. The proprietor, who I assumed to be Chet himself, came around the corner, looking down upon me and my newspapers. He wore khaki pants and a cardigan sweater buttoned over his white shirt.
Every Sunday I said, “And two packs of Marlboro’s.” As he turned to get the cigarettes, I put my little stack of quarters next to the big brass cash register and looked away.
Chet would put the cigarettes on top of the newspapers, but he never said a word to me and we never made eye contact. Maybe it was obvious from my body language that I was in agony. I lifted the pile to my chest and exited quickly through the screen door by pressing my shoulder up against the Holsum Bread advertising printed on the door’s metal crossbar. Whew. Mission accomplished.
I fled to the station wagon, where I immediately peeled open the newspaper and began reading the funnies. But only after giving a double-page spread to each of my siblings, who were grappling for their share. Having run the risk of undisclosed peril, I felt I deserved first choice, the outer pages with Peanuts.
By sixth grade I had branched out into the full page ads from Gimbel’s, Tiffany’s, and Bloomingdale’s. I had to get my fashion sense somewhere.
Later, I discovered Art Buchwald’s syndicated column on the lower right corner of the editorial page below the center fold of the Evening Gazette. Buchwald’s blend of humor and Washington politics hit a sweet spot in my literary interests, and I think it’s safe to say that I was probably the only seventh grader at St. Joseph’s reading political satire. I loved his style and it encouraged my goal of someday writing words that might make people laugh. It was his column alone that inspired me to become a high school journalist for our town’s local weekly.
Due to my lack of social skills, it never dawned on me that my literary crush on Mr. Buchwald might be inappropriate, and during tenth grade, I wrote a fan letter to Mr. Buchwald in my neatest penmanship. I told him I enjoyed his column—especially his humor—and I closed with: “I would be very pleased to receive a personal letter from you.”
I addressed it to him c/o our local paper, stamped and sealed the envelope and, on my way to the bus stop, I placed the letter in our rural mailbox with the flag up.
Not long afterward, I was excited to receive a hand-typed (Courier 10) and hand-signed letter from Mr. Buchwald on a 5 x 7” sheet of engraved Washington Post letterhead. He thanked me for my letter and interest in his column, and he closed with:
“Would you like to run away to Brazil with me?”
Naïve as I was, I didn’t understand that this was his literal response to my request for a personal letter.
I brought the letter to my father, who was sitting in the living room, smoking in the dark as he often did. I saw the glowing tip of his cigarette and I turned on the table lamp at his side. He scanned the letter quickly and was clearly not amused. He handed it back to me without comment.
I wandered into the kitchen to share the letter with my mother. She wiped her hands on her apron and read it slowly. Twice. She, too, had no comment. I brought the letter upstairs to my bedroom and, after reading it a few times, I tucked it away in my oak drop-front desk. At some point, after I went away to college, my mother threw the letter away, along with six years’ worth of my London pen pal’s letters and the binder of flowery poetry I had written in seventh grade.
Mummy had no respect for the written word—mine or anyone else’s. Any newsprint left untended was destined to line the kitchen waste basket under the sink. I still remember the precise cubby in my desk where I placed Mr. Buchwald’s letter. Top cubby, all the way to the right. I remember reaching in, touching all four sides and the top, all the way to the back, then bending over to peer inside. The letter was gone, and Mummy said she didn’t know what happened to it. Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Years later, I learned that in 1963, the very year I had written to Mr. Buchwald, he had been hospitalized for severe depression. I instantly recognized the irony: a depressed young girl in Massachusetts writes a letter to her literary hero, who is also depressed. Neither, of course, knows this fact about the other. The girl addresses his humor, and he responds in kind.
His letter cheered me considerably. I can only hope that my letter cheered him. Fifty-six years later, I still wonder about our happenstance of communication.
# # #
Second Place: Chasing the Setting Sun
by Susan Cooke
Mom slid her passport through to the customs agent who still hadn’t made eye contact with her. As the agent saw her passport, and her age, her head jerked up and with a fabulous Georgia drawl said, “Why honey! You look better than people who come through here half your age!” We were coming home from her first trip to Europe; she was 82.
Two years later, we were in Dublin. The “Hop On” bus stopped at an impressive stone cathedral just as the service was starting; we stayed. When the service ended, the minister said, “We’ll have tea and coffee in the crypt.” I looked at mom, “Do you want….?”
I didn’t even finish the sentence, Mom looked at me and said, “How could we miss coffee in the crypt!” That experience became a catch phrase, “Well, it probably won’t be as good as coffee in the crypt.”
She was always game to try something new if she thought it would be fun. In my teens, she took a friend and me swimming at the Blue Hole. A great spot at a local river; a sandy beach, deep blue water, and a rope swing for the brave. Teenagers were climbing the rope, swinging out over the river, past the rocks, and dropping into the deepest part of the river. Watching from the beach, my friend turned to me, pointing, “Who is that?” I looked across the river, “Oh, it’s my mom.” She had swum across, waited her turn and was swinging out over the river.
I have a picture of her in her late 70s, bright green jacket, snow boots and gloves, standing with a 20 feet wall of snow behind her. She’d gone sledding with my sister, her husband and me. It never occurred to her that aging created limitations. And for many years, it didn’t.
My mother is pragmatic, non-sentimental. The night before she had her leg amputated, my sister took her to see the movie Happy Feet, about a penguin who has amazing dancing skills. I was appalled. “You took our mom, who is losing her leg, to see a movie about dancing?” Neither one of them even saw a connection, it was just a lighthearted Disney movie with a happy ending. Years have gone by since that night, and she has persisted beyond anything I could have imagined. Her medical staff think of her as the Energizer Bunny or maybe those old Timex watch ads is closer, “Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.” The last seven years have been like watching a prize fighter in the ring, “She’s out!!” Wait… wait, no! She’s back…. Yes! She’s back in the game.” Hit replay, again, and again.
We’d all gotten used to the replay. She wasn’t so much ‘raging against the dying of the light,’ as she was unwilling to acknowledge the light would ever die. But now, the hits keep coming, faster and harder with less time to recover.
During one ICU stay--there are so many I can’t remember what this one was for--she was unresponsive. My younger sister, Joyce, and I pulled the green plastic chairs next to her bed, wondering if she’d become awake enough to know we were there.
Nursing staff has a particular look they give you in these situations. My sister and I arrived one day, and the “look” was so intense, so pitying, I turned to Joyce and whispered, “Do you think she died, and they just hadn’t called us yet?”
Our pace slowed as we crossed the shiny vinyl floor heading to her room. Bracing for the outcome. But no. She was awake. She smiled when we saw us and launched into a 10 minute drug- induced memory of baking apple pies. Ending with, “Have you ever tried an apple and peach pie?” This progressed to a story about a couple she knew who had taken dancing lessons and entered a swing dance contest, “They were very good. They could even do flips.” From there, conversation morphed into the need for a fund raiser for women in the military, “They need our help.” Who knew drugs promoted good will?
When she fully recovered, I asked her about it. “Did you ever want to do a fund raiser for women in the military?” “Do you know anyone who entered a dance content?” No, and no. She had no memory of the entire stay, or awareness that for 45 minutes nurses were doing compression trying to get her leg to stop bleeding. Over time I believed part of her ability to be the comeback kid was she retained little memory of what was happening or had happened in these situations. She lived through it, but we remembered it.
Sitting in the window seat on the plane, I’m headed home. After one particularly snowy Northwest winter, Mom went to visit in Texas. It was meant to be a short stay, but centralized medical care coordinated by our oldest sister extended her stay. Now, after the latest series of medical challenges, I’m flying back and forth every two weeks. My plane takes off. Looking out the scratched Plexiglas window, I see the barest trace of pink and orange on the horizon as the sunset creeps forward. Slowly, the color expands filling more of the sky, pink reflecting off the airplane wings. Heading north, my flight is chasing the setting sun.
I hold in my memory a lifetime of her shared stories. Although not a Catholic, she attended Holy Names High School. When required to take Latin, she decided she’d rather flunk Latin than be forced to study it. During summer camp, when her father thought she wasn’t corresponding enough, he sent a cryptic message, “Sorry to hear you’ve broken your arm and can’t write.” As a young woman, she went sailing with friends and the boat overturned. Her friend dog paddled over, and realizing she was doing fine said, “Why am I worrying about you? You can swim!”
Twilight is my favorite time of the day. The light is soft, diffused. My mom’s twilight has lasted longer than most. So many times, we thought, “This is it.” But she fought, recovered. Went forward to have new experiences.
For us, we can see the end in sight, yet she has always focused on recovery – sure that she can do more to bring strength to her frail body and weak muscles. My sister and I see her, and more than once said, “I think I’d have given up.” But she never did. Until now. Now she is saying, “I always could do it before. I just can’t. I don’t have the energy.”
Part of me wants to say, “Fight on.” But what I say is, “I know, and however much you do, it’s o.k.” In my heart, I just want it to end on a good day. A day with conversation, laughter, a dish of her favorite ice cream, the last piece going into the jigsaw puzzle. It doesn’t have to be the biggest, best day. Just one with company, some interesting activity. A sunset. But let it end before the slow predictable decline is filled with days of no improvement – where the ability to hold a cup again makes the heart glad. Before the next setback, the next loss, the next hurdle. She has fought long and hard. Let her leave with her dignity and our memories of good days intact.
The plane has taken me halfway home and the sun has finally set.
# # #
Two years later, we were in Dublin. The “Hop On” bus stopped at an impressive stone cathedral just as the service was starting; we stayed. When the service ended, the minister said, “We’ll have tea and coffee in the crypt.” I looked at mom, “Do you want….?”
I didn’t even finish the sentence, Mom looked at me and said, “How could we miss coffee in the crypt!” That experience became a catch phrase, “Well, it probably won’t be as good as coffee in the crypt.”
She was always game to try something new if she thought it would be fun. In my teens, she took a friend and me swimming at the Blue Hole. A great spot at a local river; a sandy beach, deep blue water, and a rope swing for the brave. Teenagers were climbing the rope, swinging out over the river, past the rocks, and dropping into the deepest part of the river. Watching from the beach, my friend turned to me, pointing, “Who is that?” I looked across the river, “Oh, it’s my mom.” She had swum across, waited her turn and was swinging out over the river.
I have a picture of her in her late 70s, bright green jacket, snow boots and gloves, standing with a 20 feet wall of snow behind her. She’d gone sledding with my sister, her husband and me. It never occurred to her that aging created limitations. And for many years, it didn’t.
My mother is pragmatic, non-sentimental. The night before she had her leg amputated, my sister took her to see the movie Happy Feet, about a penguin who has amazing dancing skills. I was appalled. “You took our mom, who is losing her leg, to see a movie about dancing?” Neither one of them even saw a connection, it was just a lighthearted Disney movie with a happy ending. Years have gone by since that night, and she has persisted beyond anything I could have imagined. Her medical staff think of her as the Energizer Bunny or maybe those old Timex watch ads is closer, “Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.” The last seven years have been like watching a prize fighter in the ring, “She’s out!!” Wait… wait, no! She’s back…. Yes! She’s back in the game.” Hit replay, again, and again.
We’d all gotten used to the replay. She wasn’t so much ‘raging against the dying of the light,’ as she was unwilling to acknowledge the light would ever die. But now, the hits keep coming, faster and harder with less time to recover.
During one ICU stay--there are so many I can’t remember what this one was for--she was unresponsive. My younger sister, Joyce, and I pulled the green plastic chairs next to her bed, wondering if she’d become awake enough to know we were there.
Nursing staff has a particular look they give you in these situations. My sister and I arrived one day, and the “look” was so intense, so pitying, I turned to Joyce and whispered, “Do you think she died, and they just hadn’t called us yet?”
Our pace slowed as we crossed the shiny vinyl floor heading to her room. Bracing for the outcome. But no. She was awake. She smiled when we saw us and launched into a 10 minute drug- induced memory of baking apple pies. Ending with, “Have you ever tried an apple and peach pie?” This progressed to a story about a couple she knew who had taken dancing lessons and entered a swing dance contest, “They were very good. They could even do flips.” From there, conversation morphed into the need for a fund raiser for women in the military, “They need our help.” Who knew drugs promoted good will?
When she fully recovered, I asked her about it. “Did you ever want to do a fund raiser for women in the military?” “Do you know anyone who entered a dance content?” No, and no. She had no memory of the entire stay, or awareness that for 45 minutes nurses were doing compression trying to get her leg to stop bleeding. Over time I believed part of her ability to be the comeback kid was she retained little memory of what was happening or had happened in these situations. She lived through it, but we remembered it.
Sitting in the window seat on the plane, I’m headed home. After one particularly snowy Northwest winter, Mom went to visit in Texas. It was meant to be a short stay, but centralized medical care coordinated by our oldest sister extended her stay. Now, after the latest series of medical challenges, I’m flying back and forth every two weeks. My plane takes off. Looking out the scratched Plexiglas window, I see the barest trace of pink and orange on the horizon as the sunset creeps forward. Slowly, the color expands filling more of the sky, pink reflecting off the airplane wings. Heading north, my flight is chasing the setting sun.
I hold in my memory a lifetime of her shared stories. Although not a Catholic, she attended Holy Names High School. When required to take Latin, she decided she’d rather flunk Latin than be forced to study it. During summer camp, when her father thought she wasn’t corresponding enough, he sent a cryptic message, “Sorry to hear you’ve broken your arm and can’t write.” As a young woman, she went sailing with friends and the boat overturned. Her friend dog paddled over, and realizing she was doing fine said, “Why am I worrying about you? You can swim!”
Twilight is my favorite time of the day. The light is soft, diffused. My mom’s twilight has lasted longer than most. So many times, we thought, “This is it.” But she fought, recovered. Went forward to have new experiences.
For us, we can see the end in sight, yet she has always focused on recovery – sure that she can do more to bring strength to her frail body and weak muscles. My sister and I see her, and more than once said, “I think I’d have given up.” But she never did. Until now. Now she is saying, “I always could do it before. I just can’t. I don’t have the energy.”
Part of me wants to say, “Fight on.” But what I say is, “I know, and however much you do, it’s o.k.” In my heart, I just want it to end on a good day. A day with conversation, laughter, a dish of her favorite ice cream, the last piece going into the jigsaw puzzle. It doesn’t have to be the biggest, best day. Just one with company, some interesting activity. A sunset. But let it end before the slow predictable decline is filled with days of no improvement – where the ability to hold a cup again makes the heart glad. Before the next setback, the next loss, the next hurdle. She has fought long and hard. Let her leave with her dignity and our memories of good days intact.
The plane has taken me halfway home and the sun has finally set.
# # #
Honorable Mention: Aphelion
by Rebecca Meredith
The Old Man didn’t sleep. He didn’t sleep because She didn’t sleep.
There had been a time that felt like yesterday, when they had reveled in their nights together in beds and bags and sleeping cars, in tents and guest rooms, and once on the deck of a great ship. They had been travelers before they had settled into the big house, and even afterward they had taken every opportunity to escape together, each to be with no one but the other. The sweetest of these times had been summers spent far from the rest of the world, looking up from fields and hilltops and the middle of the ocean, to where the heavens blazed fierce and hot. Now it was winter inside the house and out, and neither of them had seen the stars for a very long time.
“Remember?” he said, holding Her hand, trying not to bruise Her, tracing the spots that looked like the constellations had looked when they lay under the night sky, telling one another the myth of the lovers, star-crossed, separated forever by The Milky Way’s white drift, talking until they were rocked to slumber by the movement of the Great Wheel. Now She pulsed from the house’s center, the North Star around which everything revolved, and he watched only Her.
And She did not sleep. Instead, She called to him in an unending series of low, short syllables from the hospital bed that dominated the den of the big house, the den that had once been full of the children and their children and their children, all the little bodies that circled Her, only Her.
“Coffee,” She would moan, and when a family member or hospice worker was there to make and bring Her a cup, hoping for acceptance of anything that would keep the frail body functioning, She would take a sip and turn Her head away, rasping “Ice cream” through lips sunken and cracked, and the search for succor would go on. Hardly five minutes passed between moans, night and day. At night there was no one there but him and in the day there were too many there who might not understand, or who might get it wrong, might bring some kind of pain to the big bed in the den. So he slept in shorter and shorter segments, keeping himself awake by fidgeting and fussing, rubbing Her legs and fetching Her bedpan, focusing on his own forward motion and what had to be done.
The rest of the time he stalked the house that had always been easy to run but now also threatened collapse upon itself as She, his Star, was burning out. He shuffled on hips made of plastic and metal to push piles of dead leaves around the January yard. He mended shutters with hands that could hardly feel, but with a memory that needed little input from the here and now. Inside of him the Great Wheel turned faster and faster until, like She did, he existed in a kind of forever twilight, between the worlds, awake and asleep, longing for night to fall, longing for a clear summer sky.
Even though his hands and his legs and even his eyes now betrayed him, he was sure he could still drive the old car, the last car he would ever own, no matter how hard it was to see in the twilight’s cold gloom. So when She called out one evening for a glass of the wine they had shared together, when they had celebrated birthdays and New Years and anniversaries more than they could recall, he dressed himself for the voyage, kissed Her lips and left Her there to go and find it. It would only take a moment, he was certain. He would go to the little wine shop on the corner near the bistro they had loved. It was so few miles. It would take so few minutes.
Since they had travelled to many places whose languages he did not read, he had always had the habit of counting blocks instead of relying on street signs. Now that everything had become blurry and unreliable, especially in the early, deceptive dark, he relied on that counting and on distant memory. As with almost everything, it had been a long time. Six and a left, then twelve and a right, then five and a right, then three and a left. Six, twelve, five, three, right, left, left, right.
It should be here. Here, on this corner where there was a building he didn’t know. It looked new, an obscene thing made of metal that reflected the car’s headlights, and made it harder than ever to see. Six, twelve, five, three, left, right, right, left. No…
When they had navigated by the night sky they had gotten lost sometimes, but it hadn’t mattered. They had been together, and together was always home. He felt Her absence now like the absence of direction, as if he had reached aphelion, and from so far away could no longer feel the gravity of Her pulling him in the way he should go. He stood on the corner turning one way and another, his breath steaming the frigid night air. Six, five. Six, five.
He had left light far behind by the time the car, the one thing he had been unable to maintain on his own, coughed its very last cough and slid silently onto the country road’s shoulder in the deep midnight. He hadn’t been afraid for hours now. How could he, when She had been by his side, always by his side?
“Remember?” he said, as he walked out into the middle of a frozen field, his eyes cast upward, searching the blurred heavens for Her. But oh, that Milky Way, that uncrossable river of stars, it drowned Her answer out.
Released at last, he lay down, and he slept.
# # #
There had been a time that felt like yesterday, when they had reveled in their nights together in beds and bags and sleeping cars, in tents and guest rooms, and once on the deck of a great ship. They had been travelers before they had settled into the big house, and even afterward they had taken every opportunity to escape together, each to be with no one but the other. The sweetest of these times had been summers spent far from the rest of the world, looking up from fields and hilltops and the middle of the ocean, to where the heavens blazed fierce and hot. Now it was winter inside the house and out, and neither of them had seen the stars for a very long time.
“Remember?” he said, holding Her hand, trying not to bruise Her, tracing the spots that looked like the constellations had looked when they lay under the night sky, telling one another the myth of the lovers, star-crossed, separated forever by The Milky Way’s white drift, talking until they were rocked to slumber by the movement of the Great Wheel. Now She pulsed from the house’s center, the North Star around which everything revolved, and he watched only Her.
And She did not sleep. Instead, She called to him in an unending series of low, short syllables from the hospital bed that dominated the den of the big house, the den that had once been full of the children and their children and their children, all the little bodies that circled Her, only Her.
“Coffee,” She would moan, and when a family member or hospice worker was there to make and bring Her a cup, hoping for acceptance of anything that would keep the frail body functioning, She would take a sip and turn Her head away, rasping “Ice cream” through lips sunken and cracked, and the search for succor would go on. Hardly five minutes passed between moans, night and day. At night there was no one there but him and in the day there were too many there who might not understand, or who might get it wrong, might bring some kind of pain to the big bed in the den. So he slept in shorter and shorter segments, keeping himself awake by fidgeting and fussing, rubbing Her legs and fetching Her bedpan, focusing on his own forward motion and what had to be done.
The rest of the time he stalked the house that had always been easy to run but now also threatened collapse upon itself as She, his Star, was burning out. He shuffled on hips made of plastic and metal to push piles of dead leaves around the January yard. He mended shutters with hands that could hardly feel, but with a memory that needed little input from the here and now. Inside of him the Great Wheel turned faster and faster until, like She did, he existed in a kind of forever twilight, between the worlds, awake and asleep, longing for night to fall, longing for a clear summer sky.
Even though his hands and his legs and even his eyes now betrayed him, he was sure he could still drive the old car, the last car he would ever own, no matter how hard it was to see in the twilight’s cold gloom. So when She called out one evening for a glass of the wine they had shared together, when they had celebrated birthdays and New Years and anniversaries more than they could recall, he dressed himself for the voyage, kissed Her lips and left Her there to go and find it. It would only take a moment, he was certain. He would go to the little wine shop on the corner near the bistro they had loved. It was so few miles. It would take so few minutes.
Since they had travelled to many places whose languages he did not read, he had always had the habit of counting blocks instead of relying on street signs. Now that everything had become blurry and unreliable, especially in the early, deceptive dark, he relied on that counting and on distant memory. As with almost everything, it had been a long time. Six and a left, then twelve and a right, then five and a right, then three and a left. Six, twelve, five, three, right, left, left, right.
It should be here. Here, on this corner where there was a building he didn’t know. It looked new, an obscene thing made of metal that reflected the car’s headlights, and made it harder than ever to see. Six, twelve, five, three, left, right, right, left. No…
When they had navigated by the night sky they had gotten lost sometimes, but it hadn’t mattered. They had been together, and together was always home. He felt Her absence now like the absence of direction, as if he had reached aphelion, and from so far away could no longer feel the gravity of Her pulling him in the way he should go. He stood on the corner turning one way and another, his breath steaming the frigid night air. Six, five. Six, five.
He had left light far behind by the time the car, the one thing he had been unable to maintain on his own, coughed its very last cough and slid silently onto the country road’s shoulder in the deep midnight. He hadn’t been afraid for hours now. How could he, when She had been by his side, always by his side?
“Remember?” he said, as he walked out into the middle of a frozen field, his eyes cast upward, searching the blurred heavens for Her. But oh, that Milky Way, that uncrossable river of stars, it drowned Her answer out.
Released at last, he lay down, and he slept.
# # #
Honorable Mention: The Queen of Persia Heist (Chapter One)
by Roxanne Dunn
I hadn’t done any work at night for three months, not since the Christmas season, and I was starting to worry that I was losing my edge when I saw it. The Queen of Persia diamond. Set in a heavy gold band and surrounded by lesser stones, each worth more than all but the most expensive baubles sold at Paris’ most exclusive jewelers.
It winked at me from the thick pinky finger of a portly man with a dapper white goatee, a round face with a ruddy complexion, and a shiny bald spot surrounded by wispy, curling, gray hair. He wore glasses with circular black frames, a richly brocaded maroon dinner jacket that glowed softly in the candle light, a pink shirt, and a flowing silk tie in shades of vanilla and dark truffle.
Halfway across the restaurant, and seated facing me, he looked around with a smug little grin, as if daring everyone to run over and beg to see his ring. At the table with him sat a tall, lean man with dark hair that swooped back on the side. He wore a black suit tailored to fit across his broad shoulders without a single wrinkle.
My heart beat triple time as I dragged my eyes away from the diamond. I could not let him catch me gazing at it, even though other diners were pausing in their conversations, raising their eyebrows, and nodding discretely in that direction.
Outrageous. That diamond belonged in the Museum of Antiquities in Istanbul. I know because I took it from there myself. That was seven years ago when I was nineteen. I added it to my secret stash in the safe in my mother’s wine cellar in Bellingham. And someone, I never have known who, stole it. Who would have known to look for it in the dimness behind all the wine bottles in that granola-crunching backwater in Western Washington?
And how did it get here, on the finger of a man completely unknown to me? I took my compact from my bag and pretended to refresh my lipstick while I shot several pictures of him and then zoomed in on the ring.
Without a smidgeon of doubt, he meant for me to see the ring. He had managed to plant himself right smack in my line of vision, and although he gazed around the room, smiling and occasionally nodding at the other diners, he avoided looking at me.
My pulse kicked up a notch. Game on!
Suddenly, the breast of duck with green peppercorn sauce, which always tasted superb, elevated to the divine. I would have loved extra slices of baguette to mop up the creamy juices, but I had to prepare for what might happen next. My brain whirring, I ordered a quick little dessert, a single scoop of lemon sorbet.
What did I know about him?
Nothing, really. Either he was a thief, or he knew an excellent fence. And either he was fat, or he was wearing clothing that made him look fat. That round red face could have been faked as well. He could have stepped right out of a production of Shakespeare’s Henry IV. Fat, jolly, hedonistic Sir John Falstaff. Until I knew more, I’d call him Falstaff.
When his server brought him single scoop of lemon sorbet, I signed my bill, slipped into my leopard-print trench coat, tucked my signature red clutch bag under my arm, and left. The desire to get a close-up glimpse of the Queen of Persia almost overwhelmed me. After all, she belonged in my treasure chest. But I didn’t even glance in that direction.
As I hurried toward the taxi stand around the corner, I pulled the combs out of my hair, releasing it from the French knot. It tumbled to my shoulders and I fluffed it around my face. I put on a pair of large, ugly, pink plastic glasses that I carry in my handbag, turned my coat inside out to show the nondescript black side, and pulled a frumpy knit hat out of the pocket and jammed it down on my head. My red clutch went into a grocery carry bag that lived in another pocket. I couldn’t do anything about the red stilettos. I didn’t have an alternative. But not to worry. Even frumpy moms wear five-inch heels these days.
At the taxi stand, I handed the first driver in line a twenty-euro bill. “Please drive to a place where you can see the restaurant, the Cochon qui Rit. Then wait until I signal you to come and pick me up.”
He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged and took the money. “Okay.”
I hustled back and waited. Two minutes later, Falstaff and his friend stepped outside.
From the alcove of the apartment building across the street from the restaurant, I snapped a series of photos with the camera in my compact. I only needed one, actually, but the man with Falstaff was worthy of many. In the camera’s night vision view finder, his eyes were deep indigo, set in a rectangular face with a perfect nose and mouth. His tailored suit screamed ex-pen-sive London tailor, his starched white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, his black tie knotted loosely, and square gold cufflinks glittering with diamonds.
As the two men approached the curb, a shining, pearl-gray car with a hood a mile long, one of those fearfully expensive antique imports from England, glided to a stop in front of them. A uniformed chauffeur got out, hustled around, and opened the rear door. While I signaled my waiting taxi, they climbed in. The chauffeur closed the door with a discreet, classy, thump. Seconds later, I slid into the cab and instructed the driver to follow them.
We turned left where rue St. Dominique intersects the street right in front of Les Invalides, the giant complex with the glowing golden dome over Napoleon’s tomb. By then, they were two cars ahead. Perfect. We turned left again beside the Seine and headed toward the Eiffel Tower. Piece of cake. You could see that car a mile away. I rested back in my seat.
The driver gazed at me in the mirror.
I knew those eyes.
He smirked.
I caught my breath.
“Nice glasses, Chole.”
The rich, deep timbre of his voice made my knees wobble, as always.
# # #
It winked at me from the thick pinky finger of a portly man with a dapper white goatee, a round face with a ruddy complexion, and a shiny bald spot surrounded by wispy, curling, gray hair. He wore glasses with circular black frames, a richly brocaded maroon dinner jacket that glowed softly in the candle light, a pink shirt, and a flowing silk tie in shades of vanilla and dark truffle.
Halfway across the restaurant, and seated facing me, he looked around with a smug little grin, as if daring everyone to run over and beg to see his ring. At the table with him sat a tall, lean man with dark hair that swooped back on the side. He wore a black suit tailored to fit across his broad shoulders without a single wrinkle.
My heart beat triple time as I dragged my eyes away from the diamond. I could not let him catch me gazing at it, even though other diners were pausing in their conversations, raising their eyebrows, and nodding discretely in that direction.
Outrageous. That diamond belonged in the Museum of Antiquities in Istanbul. I know because I took it from there myself. That was seven years ago when I was nineteen. I added it to my secret stash in the safe in my mother’s wine cellar in Bellingham. And someone, I never have known who, stole it. Who would have known to look for it in the dimness behind all the wine bottles in that granola-crunching backwater in Western Washington?
And how did it get here, on the finger of a man completely unknown to me? I took my compact from my bag and pretended to refresh my lipstick while I shot several pictures of him and then zoomed in on the ring.
Without a smidgeon of doubt, he meant for me to see the ring. He had managed to plant himself right smack in my line of vision, and although he gazed around the room, smiling and occasionally nodding at the other diners, he avoided looking at me.
My pulse kicked up a notch. Game on!
Suddenly, the breast of duck with green peppercorn sauce, which always tasted superb, elevated to the divine. I would have loved extra slices of baguette to mop up the creamy juices, but I had to prepare for what might happen next. My brain whirring, I ordered a quick little dessert, a single scoop of lemon sorbet.
What did I know about him?
Nothing, really. Either he was a thief, or he knew an excellent fence. And either he was fat, or he was wearing clothing that made him look fat. That round red face could have been faked as well. He could have stepped right out of a production of Shakespeare’s Henry IV. Fat, jolly, hedonistic Sir John Falstaff. Until I knew more, I’d call him Falstaff.
When his server brought him single scoop of lemon sorbet, I signed my bill, slipped into my leopard-print trench coat, tucked my signature red clutch bag under my arm, and left. The desire to get a close-up glimpse of the Queen of Persia almost overwhelmed me. After all, she belonged in my treasure chest. But I didn’t even glance in that direction.
As I hurried toward the taxi stand around the corner, I pulled the combs out of my hair, releasing it from the French knot. It tumbled to my shoulders and I fluffed it around my face. I put on a pair of large, ugly, pink plastic glasses that I carry in my handbag, turned my coat inside out to show the nondescript black side, and pulled a frumpy knit hat out of the pocket and jammed it down on my head. My red clutch went into a grocery carry bag that lived in another pocket. I couldn’t do anything about the red stilettos. I didn’t have an alternative. But not to worry. Even frumpy moms wear five-inch heels these days.
At the taxi stand, I handed the first driver in line a twenty-euro bill. “Please drive to a place where you can see the restaurant, the Cochon qui Rit. Then wait until I signal you to come and pick me up.”
He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged and took the money. “Okay.”
I hustled back and waited. Two minutes later, Falstaff and his friend stepped outside.
From the alcove of the apartment building across the street from the restaurant, I snapped a series of photos with the camera in my compact. I only needed one, actually, but the man with Falstaff was worthy of many. In the camera’s night vision view finder, his eyes were deep indigo, set in a rectangular face with a perfect nose and mouth. His tailored suit screamed ex-pen-sive London tailor, his starched white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, his black tie knotted loosely, and square gold cufflinks glittering with diamonds.
As the two men approached the curb, a shining, pearl-gray car with a hood a mile long, one of those fearfully expensive antique imports from England, glided to a stop in front of them. A uniformed chauffeur got out, hustled around, and opened the rear door. While I signaled my waiting taxi, they climbed in. The chauffeur closed the door with a discreet, classy, thump. Seconds later, I slid into the cab and instructed the driver to follow them.
We turned left where rue St. Dominique intersects the street right in front of Les Invalides, the giant complex with the glowing golden dome over Napoleon’s tomb. By then, they were two cars ahead. Perfect. We turned left again beside the Seine and headed toward the Eiffel Tower. Piece of cake. You could see that car a mile away. I rested back in my seat.
The driver gazed at me in the mirror.
I knew those eyes.
He smirked.
I caught my breath.
“Nice glasses, Chole.”
The rich, deep timbre of his voice made my knees wobble, as always.
# # #