4:38

My mother died when I was 12. She was in an accident. She was 32 or 34 or something like that; I’m not really sure because I wasn’t aware at that age of how old my parents were. And my father doesn’t like to talk about it, to talk about her. I only know about the accident from pieces of memories I have of the time. For some reason, the thing I most clearly remember is her time of death. 4:38 pm. Her doctor came out of surgery and walked up to my father. I knew from his face that she had died, and I wasn’t that surprised to be honest. I had seen the car she was in, I had driven past it with my father on the way to the hospital. There were cop cars and tow trucks lined up along the side of the road, lights flashing in silence as we drove by. My father didn’t look at the scene, he stared straight ahead and watched the road as if it were an angry, violent beast set to strike at any moment and it required all of his attention to keep it at bay. I, though, had no such concern about the road and looked out the window and into the world of twisted metal, leaking oil, and smashed glass. There was blood. You could see blood all over the car—my mother’s blue VW—both inside and out. With that much blood left behind, I wondered how it was possible for any to be left inside of her. I guess there wasn’t enough. And that’s why the doctor came and told us 4:38 pm and he did everything he could and he was sorry. My father cried and I cried and, after a little while, we drove back home again. My father called my aunt, his sister, to come and watch me while he went back to the hospital to do whatever he needed to do now that my mother was dead. My Aunt Julie came over and she cried, I cried, we cried some more. Then she let me eat ice cream for dinner and allowed me to watch as much television as I wanted. I ate until I got sick and watched until my eyes burned and Aunt Julie told me to go upstairs and go to bed. I fell asleep quickly, but woke in the middle of the night crying. I wanted my mom. I wanted it to be before 4:38 pm, before the twisted blue VW and the blood. I cried quietly so no one would hear me and eventually fell back asleep, hugging an old stuffed animal that I used to sleep with when I was younger. The next day was a school day, but I didn’t have to go. I didn’t have to go all week, in fact. I wanted to go, though. I wanted to have things go back to normal, to go to class and hang out with my friends, and talk about who was dating who and other very adult topics. Not be curled up in my bed with a large stuffed dog crying into its soft, light brown fur. I didn’t see my father much that week. He was in and out of the house, coming into my room once or twice a day to ask how I was doing and telling me to talk to my Aunt Julie if I wanted to ask any questions. He told me that mom was in a better place now, but that didn’t make much sense to me because I had last seen her lying on a gurney in a hospital as they wheeled her into surgery. That certainly was not a better place. I told my father this and he smiled, which I didn’t like. Then he told me that she was in heaven, with the angels. And with God. That didn’t make things much better because I had always been told that heaven was very white and everyone wore white gowns. It seemed just like the hospital. And there was Jesus, dressed in a white doctor’s coat that read “Dr. Christ” above the pocket over his heart and he was walking towards us, my father and me, and telling us that he was sorry but my mother had arrived earlier than she should have.
“She just came in a few minutes ago,” he said, “At 4:38 pm.”

Shortly after the plague

Shortly after the plague had swept through most of the country, they started coming down out of the hillside hovels and small town grottos in which they had hidden. Scores of men and women, none younger than teenagers or older than mid-30s, all came trickling into the cities hoping to find someone, anyone, who could tell them what had happened.
At first, it was just an outbreak, an epidemic. Then the canisters were found, their sides torn open by explosion, and people began to put the pieces together. It was most certainly an attack, a massive, well-planned annihilation of the American public. Everyone said it was the Arabs. Everyone said it was the Chinese. Everyone said it was the Jews. Everyone said it was the Gays. Everyone said it was Everyone Else. They were all out to get us, jealous of our money, our freedom, our democratic values. Our satellite television and SUVs and easy access to hardcore porn. They wanted what we had, what they could never have. Those Sand Niggers. Those Chinks. Those Kikes. Those Faggots. Those Everyone.
But then word trickled in from up north, down south, across the pond: people everywhere were dying. We were all dying, slowly and en masse. In Europe, Africa, Asia, South America, Oceania, we were all dying. Our Muslim friends. Our Communist brethren. Our Jewish sons and daughters. Our Gay lovers. Our Everyone.
Fuck.
We were all dying. And there was no one to blame. No one to hate or target or dream about torturing. And those goddamned survivors kept coming. From miles around, looking bedraggled and blistered in the heat and sun. July was a shitty time to die in America. Those who had been caught by the first wave, their bodies overflowing hospitals, morgues, funeral homes, even jail cells, they were beginning to go bad. The rot, the heavy stench of decay, was everywhere. Was unavoidable.
On particularly hot days, the biggest cities became ovens. Baking, broiling the dead. On those days, if you lived in those cities, you had to shut your windows and fan yourself—the electricity long since cut off—to keep from dying of heat exhaustion. We were the strong ones, though. We were the ones who could shut our windows and live. We could sit in an apartment in Brooklyn, nude, sweating, drinking small sips of water from the reserve tank on the back of the toilet. We could all do this because we had all survived the plague. Anyone who would have been too weak to lock themselves away on those worst days, they were already dead by then.
Near the end of July, a movement had begun to get everyone out of the cities—abandon them for more open spaces. The same open spaces that the survivors had trickled in from, in fact.
The Movement said: Let’s go to the country. Everything will be fine there. There will be fewer bodies there, less stench, less baking flesh.
The Survivors from the Hills said: There is nothing there. We left there because we could not survive there. We will not return.
The Movement said: Then stay here and die.
The Survivors from the Hills said: Then go and die.
There was no fighting, there was no rioting. Only the simple division of people. None of us had lived through the Civil War, but if we had, this division would have looked remarkably familiar. Friends chose different paths. Families were torn apart. Brother against brother, sister against sister. Both sides damned to death by the other. Unlike most people, I stayed in Brooklyn. I was the only one in my building, aside from the body of the crazy lady who lived on the first floor who, when alive, smelled terribly like cabbage and cat shit. Even dead she smelled like cabbage and cat shit. Decaying cabbage and cat shit which, being three floors above her, was not that noticeable. Though I did have to hurry down the stairs when I left so as to avoid the smell as much as possible.
There was a supermarket across the street from my apartment. It had been broken into and raided many, many times, but there was still plenty of food to take. Especially with nearly all of my neighborhood choosing to follow The Movement out of the city and into New Jersey or Connecticut or some such place. There were entire rows of uneaten, unstolen food. Most of it was not ready-to-eat, so the lazy fucks who robbed the market left them on the shelf. But I didn’t. I took them all. As many as I could carry. Without any gas on in the oven or electricity to run the microwave, I resorted to cooking all of my meals on my small propane camping stove. I did it so often, and in the same place each time, that a black ring of fire and ash had formed in the center of my kitchen table.
Three months, two weeks, and three days after the first people had started leaving—leaving in the millions—I heard music coming from somewhere. With no electricity and all of the cute little cafes with acoustic open mike nights closed down, I hadn’t heard any music in nearly two months. My iPod was long dead and, it being the only battery-operated music-making device in the house, there was no other source of music for me to use. I had tried playing a vinyl record by placing it on the turntable and, after lowering the needle, spinning the record manually, but all I was able to produce were a few undecipherable chirps and pops, though I continued to stand there and spin the record for hours. That is how desperate I was for sound. Any sound. After the iPod died, I stole a portable stereo from an electronics store down the street, but I couldn’t find batteries anywhere to run it. Even before all of the bread and water was gone, the batteries were taken. People could stand to let their stomachs growl and throats dry up, but no one would stand for silence and darkness. I guess I didn’t act fast enough. I was able to steal a Discman, but only had four AA batteries in my house. The thing died after a few weeks of play. I tried to limit myself to listening to only one CD a day, but it still didn’t last very long.
So when I heard that music coming in through the window, I stopped. I was making a small lunch of Ritz cracker and Velveeta cheese sandwiches when I heard the noise. It was the distinct sound of the Beatles—“Rocky Raccoon” in fact. I peered out the kitchen window and tried to see where the sound was coming from. Odd, thing to say, huh? “See” where the sound was coming from. But that’s just what I did. Same as I would if I were watching an orchestra, or a choir, and wanted to pick out one particular instrument or singer. Just look directly at that person and the sound of their violin or trombone or baritone would grow and take over the other sounds and voices around them. This is what I did when I looked out of the window. I scanned the empty backyards and rooftops that I could see from my kitchen window, but there was nothing. Curious, and bored of course, I put on a pair of shoes, said goodbye to the cat—animals were immune to whatever it was that had killed the rest of us, in fact the number of stray cats and dogs in my neighborhood about tripled during the course of the plague, people dying and leaving their pets alone and unattended; my cat, luckily, still had me to take care of her; hell, there was plenty of cat food in the supermarket since no one had yet resorted to eating it—and headed out the door.
As I left, I grabbed my gun, well, a gun. I had collected about a dozen guns over the course of the past few months. From handguns to rifles to one alarmingly large automatic weapon. Once people started leaving the city, I felt that I should protect myself. I entered abandoned apartments, shops, and offices and grabbed every gun that I could find. Not that I thought I would need all of these guns, but because if I had them, that meant that no one else could get their hands on them. Might as well give myself the advantage as much as possible. Also, since I usually only found the guns and not the bullets, once a gun was empty it was pretty much useless. Not that I fired the guns that much. In fact, since my foraging for deadly weapons, I had only fired a gun three times; twice accidentally. Both of those times I was trying to figure out where the safety was and ended up shooting a hole into the wall of my apartment. The third time I shot a gun, just a few days before I heard the music through my kitchen window, I killed a dog in the middle of 5th Avenue. It was rabid, starving, or mad. Hell, it may have been all three. In any case, I had stepped out of my apartment building, hurrying past the rotting cabbage smell on the second floor, to go “shopping” and had seen the dog across the street. It was walking slowly, weaving back and forth across the sidewalk. When the door to my building slammed shut it looked over at me. At first I felt sorry for the poor thing, all skin and bones. But then it growled at me and started to walk towards me. It barked twice and began running. I stood with my hand on the door, ready to open it in case I missed, and pulled my gun from my pocket. I fired once, hitting the dog in the throat. I wasn’t really aiming for anything in particular, just hoping to hit or, at the very least, scare the animal. But it was definite kill shot. One painful yelp and the dog collapsed onto the ground in the middle of the street. I looked around to see if anyone had seen me shoot a dog in cold blood. No one was around. No one was ever around.
I walked to the supermarket, taking a wide path around the dog’s body, careful not to get too close for fear that it was just pretending to be dead in order to lure me close enough to bite. I hurried to the supermarket. By the time I was done with my shopping, arms laden with crackers, cereal, cans of beans, rice, and cat food, there were three birds standing on the road near the dog’s body. I walked around all of them and went back into my building, not leaving until that day of the music. When I stepped outside I looked for the dog’s body. It was gone. A dark, red stain marked its former resting place. Whether it had been taken away by man or another animal, I had no idea. And didn’t really want to think too much about. It was enough that it was gone. Dead and gone. I walked down the street, towards the back of my building where the sound had seemed to come from, and stopped when I heard another song. This time it was “Why don’t we do it in the road?” I stood on the sidewalk and lingered for a little while as the song continued.
Without electricity or phone access, there really wasn’t much to do after the plague. And, since I had lost my wife to the plague and my family to the plague and my friends to the plague, there wasn’t anyone worth calling anyway. So that just left me, my cat, and my apartment. For five months, nearly half a year, I had been in that apartment without electricity or any other amenity. In the beginning I would see people on the street and talk to them about what was happening, what we were going to do, how we would survive. But that got old and people started to leave, and now there was no one. So I stayed inside. I stayed inside and I read. And I wrote. And I read some more. About a year before the plague broke out, my wife and I had written up a list of every book that we owned. We organized it on the computer, by author’s name, and noted which books each of us had read. Once the electricity went out, and I still had a little life left in my computer, I opened that list and copied down every book on it. I filled page after page with titles and authors and whether or not I had read it. When I was done, I had the following:

1,711 books
854 read by me

The first thing I set out to do was read the remaining 857 books that I had not read before. With all of my “free” time and with nothing else to do, I thought it would be an easy task. For the most part it was, however there were some books that we owned that neither of us had read—and for good reason. The Complete Works of Milton—that was a bitch and a half. But I powered through it. With nothing else to do, no one else to see, it was pretty much all I had. Even if it was at times a slow and somewhat painful process.
I started by reading the books that my wife had read before she died. I had had months to deal with the grief, anger, and confusion that I felt following her death. The reading of “her” books was a final, cathartic release; a long goodbye. I had watched her suffer, along with the hundreds of millions of others throughout the country, as her body slowed down, gave up, and wasted away. The stench of death inundated our apartment, even overpowering the sharp, tangy scent of cat urine from the dirty litter box that I didn’t bother to clean out during my wife’s final weeks. After she died, 28 and beautiful and in incredible pain, I lay next to her on the bed and slept one final night alongside her. In the morning, I wrapped her in a sheet and carried her down the four flights of stairs to the street. By that time, the world had shrugged off all the old rules and laws of proper society and reduced itself to the worst of behaviors: there were muggings and beatings and rapes, all unreported, all out in the open. And there was no one to stop them, no one who cared. Either you were too sick to notice or taking care of someone you loved who was dying and had problems of your own.
I carried my wife down the street until I found a suitable car and broke its passenger-side window with a rock. After a little work, I hotwired the car and drove the both of us south down Flatbush Avenue until we hit the Brooklyn Marine Park. There, I lifted my wife out of the back of the car and walked out into a large bay. When I reached a point where the water was up to my chest, I carefully lay my wife on top of the water, said a short prayer, and let her body drift and sink away, disappearing below the level of the water in front of me. Wet, cold, and crying, I turned back to the shore, restarted the car, and drove back home. When I got back, I stripped the sheets, pillowcases, and duvet cover from the bed and threw them into a black plastic trash bag. Still in my wet clothes, I took the bag outside and threw it into a large, nearly overflowing trash bin that sat in the parking lot of the supermarket across the street. Once back inside, I scrubbed the apartment clean. Beginning with the litter box, which had reasserted itself as the foulest odor in the apartment, I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. Mopping, vacuuming, sweeping, dusting, scrubbing. I did it all. I even got down on my hands and knees and scraped the small rug in our living room with a cat-hair brush, picking pieces of fur, hair, food, and cellulite up from deep within the carpet. Cleaned up after the disease, after the death.
When I was done, and had filled three more black garbage bags with paper towels, crumbs, hairballs, dust bunnies, and spoiled food, I took it all downstairs and out to the garbage bin across the street. When I returned to the apartment I locked the door behind me and didn’t leave for nearly a month, except to occasionally venture out on a quest to stockpile weapons or steal more canned food from the supermarket. Sitting in the apartment, alone, surrounded by darkness and silence, I only had time. Time to think, time to sleep, time to read and eat and shit. Time to wait for something to happen, something that would give all of this death, all of this poison, some meaning. But nothing ever happened. Not until the people started coming into the city from the hills. And then the Movement began, ran its course, and ended. Then it was all silence and reading again. Until that afternoon when I heard the Beatles coming through my window. That day that I put a gun in my pocket and went down the stairs.
“Why don’t we do it in the road?” Paul McCartney said.
“No one will be watching us.” Paul McCartney said.
“Why don’t we do it in the road?” Paul McCartney said.
I followed Paul’s voice out behind my building and came across a wooden fence. The voice was singing from behind the fence, loudly. I tried to peek over the fence but it was too tall. I tried to look through the wooden slats, but there was a green plastic tarp behind the fence that blocked my view. Screwing up my courage, I called out to Paul, who had moved on to “I Will” and was serenading me lovingly from behind the fence.
“Hello!” I called out, listening as the White Album responded.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Paul answered.
“Anyone there?” I asked. “I live around the corner and heard your music playing. I didn’t think there were many people left around here.”
“Sing it loud so I can hear you,” Paul said.
“I haven’t seen anyone around here in weeks or maybe a month,” I said. “Who knows how long for sure."
“And you know I will,” Paul quipped.
“Anyone there?”
Only Paul.
Patting my right front pocket to make sure that my gun was still there, I began to climb the wooden fence with the green tarp backing to investigate what was on the other side. Before I had even managed to boost myself up, a loud bang rang out from the other side of the fence, splintering the wood beside me and causing my hands to release from the top of the fence and my bladder to release in my pants. I fell down to the ground, picked myself up as fast as I could, and ran back to my apartment, warm piss dripping down the front of my legs. I threw myself inside the front door to my building and slammed the door shut behind me. Panting heavily, my hands shaking and my heart beating quickly, I collapsed to the ground behind the door.
“Fuck,” I said to the empty mailboxes that occupied the small corridor between the two doors that marked the entrance to my building. “What the fuck?”
I sat there for a while, making sure that I hadn’t been followed by the crazy asshole who had shot at me. Or near me, at least. I didn’t move until the urine began drying on my legs and pants, leaving an unpleasant chill and stickiness at my crotch. I stood up, unlocked the second door, and walked slowly back upstairs to my apartment, not caring to hurry past the decaying smell of cabbage and cat shit that flooded out of 2R.
Upstairs, I undressed, threw my jeans, boxers, and socks into the tub, and lay down naked on the bed. I was tired. It was quiet again. The music had been silenced, leaving only the sound of the wind to keep me company. I fell asleep a little while later, not waking up again until the next morning when the cat came by to rub her face on mine and ask for breakfast. After feeding her, I stood by the kitchen window, listening for the sounds of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. None of them said a word.

The Three Deaths of Alex Corda

1.
He drove down the highway, looking upwards at the sky on straight-aways. A renegade light flare had escaped from its holding place and was rolling and thumping around in the truck-bed, something he’d have to fix when he hit the next road stop. There was something about the cloud, something he couldn’t quite figure out. The cloud had been overhead since Ft. Lauderdale moving to the left or right depending on the curve of the road, but always there. Sitting in the decade old Ford, watching others come and go, he was grateful that that cloud was there. It was his constant companion, never turning away or merging off into the rural countryside. It was his passenger on the long road north.
The radio snapping back to life brought him out of the cloud-nostalgia and into reality. WWRG 103.5 had been fading in and out for the last forty-five minutes, often going out completely for stretches at a time. It had just come back, violent and abrasive, when he had been looking at the cloud. A guitar strummed, introducing a young man who tried his hardest to sound like Bruce Springsteen, and the music faded away again. It had been this way all day: fragments of songs bouncing off of the Ford’s dashboard and rushing out of the open windows. Along the way he’d probably lost a couple dozen songs to the rough wind which burst through the cab. It was enough noise to keep him busy, occupied by the thoughts his mind created with each little piece of music.
The last snippet had brought images of Springsteen walking down the streets of Philadelphia, a full courtroom, and cheesesteaks. The images were brief, but potent. He divided each one from another, chose the most interesting, and concentrated on that one. A few moments after he selected the crowded courtroom scene all thoughts of Springsteen and cheesesteaks had vanished.
Silence bumped the courtroom out of his mind’s eye as visions of Meg flashed through his mind: the first time they made love, a letter she wrote him when he had to rush home and visit his father in the hospital, a dog leash she had given him as a Christmas gift (to be used when they moved into the new house and could finally have a dog), her smile, the cold room where he had to go when he was asked to identify her body. That last image he shook out of his mind, there is no need to focus on that which we cannot change. God grant me the serenity.

2.
Alex Corda sat in the air conditioned room hugging himself as he felt goosebumps rise up on his arms and the hair on his neck stand straight up. His mother always kept the house too cold. When he was growing up he had to wear long sleeve shirts all year round: winter brought natural cold, summer artificial.
This was the first time in a while that Alex had sat alone in his family’s living room. In his younger days he’d been there every night, pushing the hours of one day into the next, watching television and relishing the solitude. High school and college were years of ever-present parenting, his only escape being the late night seclusion of the living room. But that was years ago, ended when he received his diploma--B.A. in Natural Sciences--and had packed all of his belongings into his ‘72 Chevy. The car, a graduation gift from his parents, had taken him to Tucson where he’d hoped to find a gig teaching Environmental Science at a high school. That was an even dozen years ago, when he was 22 and naive. That was his last night alone in this room.
Alex looked up from the steaming cup of tea and cast his eyes about, scanning the environment, seeing if anything had changed. The couch he was sitting on was the same, he could tell by the fresh smell that it had been reupholstered recently but in the same exact pattern as it always was: a faint yellow sunflower spaced every five or six inches on the dark green canvas. He smiled at the predictability of his mother. Like the too cold house, the furniture hadn’t changed a bit. He was comforted by the consistency, it was easier to fall back into an old life when things looked and felt the same.
A chaise lounge sat empty and alone in the corner of the room. So far as he knew, no one had ever sat upon it or even gotten close to it in the 34 years of life which had passed by Alex’s eyes. It was a decadent decoration from a generation long since vanished, something only appreciated by those no longer around. Alex had never tried to sit in it. In all his years in the house, all his solitary nights alone in the cold and dim living room, he’d never even considered it. Every time he looked towards the hollow corner in which it sat his first thought was always that it was too far from the television. In the back of his mind, however, he knew there was something more than that. The chair just didn’t look comfortable. It looked more like a museum piece, evidence to demonstrate the furniture of archaic people with little thought towards progressive ergonomics. It gave off a vibe of discomfort the likes of which he’d never seen elsewhere. And it was evident to others, not just Alex. Anyone who entered the room would avoid the chaise without any real proof of it’s discomfort. Even at the crowded social gatherings, the kind which his mother used to throw against his father’s wishes, no one would venture to sit there or even get close to it. It was a furniture outcast.
He moved his eyes past the lounge and looked contentedly at the awkward behemoth which held the television and about a hundred hardcover books. The “entertainment center” had been built by Alex and his father when he was in high school. Alex was pretty sure that it was the first real “entertainment center” ever created. It was solidly built out of three different types of wood with places for the television, a VCR, books, and tapes. It was a relic when they’d built it. Now it was an architectural masterpiece. It put anything you could pick up at Ikea to shame. It must have weighed damn near 600 pounds altogether, and was stained a deep, rich, dark cherry red.
For three weeks he and his father worked on the project under the dim glow of a single 100 watt bulb in the backyard tool shed. During that time he grew as close to the man as one could possibly get. Alex guessed that only his mother had known him that closely, seen him open and free like that. But maybe even she had never seen him that way. The way a son sees a father. The way a man sees himself. Those three weeks were quickly forgotten, brushed under the carpet with other old memories of unimportant occasions. A few days after they had finished putting on the final coats of finish and nailing and gluing the final pieces together, Alex and his father reverted to their former ways: an occasional “Hello, how’re you doing?” or “How was school/work?” was often all that transpired between the two. His father seemed perfectly content with that kind of relationship. Alex noted the cyclical nature of their interactions: it rose and fell with the football season. Groomed by his father to be a New York Giants diehard, Alex would always look forward to the seventeen weeks of football season and, hopefully, a few weeks of playoffs. During this five month span they would speak a secret language, talking in stats and predictions, injuries and expectations. His mother would usually be ignored at the dinner table, the condition of a starting quarterback or defensive lineman dominating over upcoming weather and local gossip. For five months there would be a glimmer, a glimpse into the world which he had seen open up in the tool shed. Hints of the man that no one really saw. Every Sunday, except for the rare occasions of Monday night games, Alex and his father would bring a bag full of salted peanuts and an empty bowl for the shells into the living room, plop themselves into preselected seats on the sofa, and watch the game. When Alex turned 16 his father allowed him one beer a game, something he always looked forward to, regardless of his dislike for beer in general and Budweiser specifically. They would sit there, father and son, man to man, drinking beer and cheering on the brutal, crushing athletes from East Rutherford. His mother would be in the kitchen making dinner and hoping the game didn’t go into overtime and ruin her casserole.
Alex smiled as he took another sip of tea. If his father could see him now, drinking tea and watching CNN, he’d probably shake his head and mutter something like “that’s not the boy I raised.” Alex would have welcomed such a remark, or even a little smirk like his father used to get when he’d mess up something his mother had told him to do. One time he over-watered her plants when she went to visit her sister in upstate New York. By the time she got back only the geraniums had survived, and those barely. She turned to his father, all ready to let hell loose over his head, and saw him trying not to smirk. “What’s so funny? You killed my plants, practically drowned the whole bunch of them.” “You told me to water them. So I did.” His mother opened her mouth to say something back, couldn’t think of anything, and started laughing. His father laughed along with her. Sometimes it didn’t take more than that to change a man. Yeah, he’d have welcomed such a look from his father while he sat on the couch and ignored the television. Alex would have welcomed anything from him now, as he sat and waited for his father’s funeral. He’d driven up the night before to help his mother get things ready. There’d be no more football games where he could sneak a beer, or big projects that brought them closer together, there’d only be the memories he’d swept under the rug long ago. Time to shake ‘em out.
Alex finished his tea and slipped quietly into the kitchen. He didn’t want to make any noise since his mother was resting upstairs. It was a good time to step outside and have a cigarette. It would probably be better that his mother didn’t see him smoking. She’d never liked the habit and thought that he had quit a year ago. He didn’t want to add to the burden she was already carrying. He walked onto the porch, lit a Camel, and stared out towards the setting sun. He heard a car backfire down the street and it made him jump a little. Living in a city for the past 8 months had made him scare easily. A little bang would register as a gunshot, a plume of smoke as a three-alarm blaze. He’d have to adjust himself while he was here. The country was similar in many ways, but sights and sounds were deceptive. The car backfired again but this time he controlled himself.

3.
Soon after the accident he’d driven straight home from Florida without calling his parents to let them know he was coming. He pulled into the driveway and looked towards his childhood. It stretched out before him like a dream, the future bulk of his inheritance. Home to his descendants, a scourge of unkempt youth the likes of which he dare not imagine. He pushed the thought aside and stepped onto the porch, noticing that his father still hadn't fixed the broken handrail which guided guests and strangers upwards towards the front door. The epic hero of procrastination was surely avoiding chores and work that day. It was Sunday and the Giants called.
His father was a man who referred to church as "that other religion,” preferring the sermons of Madden and Summerall to the book of Psalms. Cold beer, canned, and salty peanuts, shelled, took the place of transubstantiated edible deities. He was the son of a welder, grandson of a carpenter, and somewhere back along the way he claimed to be related to Johnny Appleseed. A true man of the earth he was. Farmer, butcher, dairy man. Wheat, barley, corn, rye, you name it Paul Corda grew it. Or tried to grow it. When Alex was fourteen his father had planted three acres worth of soybeans, "a crop of the future" he claimed. It was thirteen years later and Alex still wasn't sure if the land was fertile again. The soybeans had come and gone with little reward but plenty of destruction. Flying overhead one would notice a peculiar empty space in the center of the 54 acre farm. Right smack dab in the middle, running a few hundred feet from the house, the dead plot of land lay motionless and pitiful like a balding man's nightmare. His father shook off the tragedy of soybeans and put more effort into the crops that worked. It was the only thing he put his back into. His "Precious 54" his mother called it. Leaks in the roof, falling gutters, and loose handrails took a back seat to his "Precious." And his mother hated it.
Gretchen Corda opened the door on Alex's knock. "Oh, my! Alex. Well, you know that you don't have to knock here. It's your house, you just walk right in." She gave her son a smile which seemed to undermine the instructions she had just given. 'You just go ahead and knock,' it said. 'Gives us time to put on the happy face and clean up the broken dishes before we let you in.' Alex didn't address the smile, or the voice, neither wanted to hear what he'd say. A simple hello was all that was needed. Alex kissed his mother on the cheek, something he never did until this past year when things began to fall apart at home. An extra touch of affection, even something as brief and impartial as a kiss, would do wonders to set her straight for the evening. Her lackadaisical attitude towards all things "maternal" soon twittered away, retreating to the porch while Alex was there. An airy light seemed to surround her face. "I've got a cake baking in the oven, two pots on the stove, and laundry soaking in the tub." And she was off, racing around with a forced elegance and a neurotic tick. Alex looked beyond her as she disappeared down the front foyer and into the kitchen, her humming voice trailing behind her in a laborious effort to keep up with the energetic train.
"One down, one to go."
He turned to his right and entered the living room. The TV was on, the volume turned up one level higher than the last time he'd visited, and his father was chasing a handful of peanuts with a mouthful of Budweiser. "Hey dad." "Alex!" A commercial came on, Gillette or some such thing; his father turned around in his seat, gave his son a once over, and turned back. "Giants are down by 5 in the fourth. Damned near threw the game away on the first play, but they got the ball and three time-outs. Take a seat." Alex placed himself on the couch, not caring what was on or who was winning, just glad to be out of the car and away from Meg. The thought of her chilled him a little but he let it pass. He heard his mother humming away in the kitchen and his father asked if he wanted a beer. It was a Sunday afternoon in November and his wife was dead. A beer would sure do the trick.


4.
The summer in Tucson hadn’t brought employment as he’d wished, but it did bring Meg. Margaret Allen Sears lived with her family in Tucson. She’d just graduated from Sarah Lawrence with a double degree in secondary education and history. She moved back with her family in May, found a job in Florida in June, and left town in July. It was in mid-June, three days after Meg finally accepted the teaching position in Ft. Lauderdale, when Alex Corda arrived weary and beaten by his five day drive from Jersey. He stopped in front of the diner which Meg’s parents owned and went in for a lunch break before heading out to see the town. He ordered a cheeseburger with extra onions and no pickles. French fries came on the side and he ate them all. A slice of pie for dessert, cherry, the daily special. And a thick chocolate shake. The kind of meal only a twenty year old could eat without causing some major discomfort in the stomach and bowels later that evening. Alex ate the entire meal without a single word. He ordered a cup of tea as a calming conclusion to the lunch. While sipping his tea he looked around and noticed that the place was practically empty. A dusty trucker sat glumly over his poached eggs and beer at the counter, but other than that the only customer was Alex. Seeing that she couldn’t possibly be busy Alex asked his waitress to sit down and join him for some tea or coffee. Meg thanked him but said she couldn’t. It wouldn’t look good for the waitress to be sitting with a customer while she was supposed to be working. Alex was a little disappointed, but understood. So he asked her when her shift was over. Meg couldn’t think of what to tell him to get out of it so she said she’d be free at 7. “I’ll be back then. Maybe I could take you out for dinner. Have someone serve you for a change.” She smiled at him without meaning to and turned towards the kitchen. Alex paid his check, left a sizable tip for an unemployed man, and checked his watch. He’d have four hours to look around town before he had to be back at the diner. That’d give him plenty of time to find a place to live.
It was seven years before they really settled in. Ten years of tiny apartments, hotel getaways and insufficient credit, until they landed flat-footed on the doorstep of their very own house. A two story mortgage with a roof. It was practically a mansion, dwarfing anything they’d lived in before. The first floor was original, the creation of a retired architect: high, curved ceilings and smooth, flowing hallways and entrances. The second floor was a rushed addition: the result of a family much too big to live in an architect’s vision of an empty nest. Alex and Meg were the third set of owners. They briefly debated adding a third story to the house, but laughed at the insanity of the idea. They had no need for more room than what existed on either floor; both put together was more than they had furniture to fill. A third floor would be pure gluttony.
So the house remained as it was, despite the presence of a new tenant, and the two of them were decidedly content with how things were. An occasional discussion of redecoration on the second story was as drastic as the pair ever got. They’d lived in the house for half a decade when Meg passed away. It was their first and only home together, and to Alex it was a constant reminder of that which was not there. He woke up a few days after the accident, sprawled wide and open in the half-empty Queen, and looked around. He called her name into the morning light but heard nothing in return. He called again and received no answer. When she’d leave in the morning to go on a walk or sit out on the front steps reading he’d know it. He could even tell how long she’d been gone by the temperature of her pillow. That morning, the day he kept calling out to no one, he felt the pillow next to him to judge how long how long ago she’d departed. It was the coldest thing he’d ever felt; that space in the pillow where her head used to lie. It had been empty for days and he knew. He checked the front stoop anyway, King at his heels with a stupid, sad look on his face. After he showered and dressed and took King for a walk Alex loaded up the truck and took off for his parent’s house. He really had nowhere else to go.

5.
There was only one bus that ran to and from Alex’s school to the surrounding neighborhood. It was a crowded bus, attempting to pack every student from the school into one vehicle, and it took almost an hour for Alex to get back home after the bell rang. Most of the time he’d just walk home and save himself twenty or thirty minutes. That would mean more time to work on the farm to help his father, or work on the house to help his mother. If it was a nasty, rainy day he’d just take the bus; thinking that it’d be better to be late than sick.
One day, in the middle of his junior year, there was a terrible, mighty storm during the late afternoon periods. Alex sat in his classroom and watched the rain and wind pound the windows and bend the trees. The weather distracted him and most of his classmates during those last few periods of the day. It was an odd storm, one that seemed to come out of nowhere. It whipped into a frenzy and brought down God’s wrath with a fury. The most surprising thing was that the sun was out, bright as can be, as if to spotlight the power of nature upon the earth. Alex made it through the final minutes, distracted as he was, and stepped out into the downpour at the end of the day. He started off towards the big yellow bus which looked blurred and out of focus among the many rain drops. As he took his first step towards the bus he saw that a line of kids had formed outside its door and the driver was telling them to stand back with a swatting motion of his hands. A second later the door closed and the bus moved slowly into the street. Alex stood still for a minute, stunned that the bus had left so quickly. He decided to head inside where he could dry off a little and call his mother to come pick him up. She’d probably yell at him for missing the bus, but she’d come pick him up just the same.
As Alex turned around to head back into the school he heard the rusty toot of the horn on his father’s truck. He looked to see where the sound had come from, not even considering that it was really his father waiting there, wondering what could have made such a familiar noise. He saw his father sitting behind the windshield of his truck, the wiper blades set on high flicking water to and fro. Alex ran over to the truck, climbed into the cab and smiled.
“Thanks.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
That was all that was said the entire ride. That was all that was needed to be said. That was his father. They rode in silence but both thought about the weather. His father thought about his crops and whether or not they’d stand up to the heavy downpour. Alex looked out of his window and wondered how something so unpleasant could lead to this. The feeling of warmth coming from the dashboard and the relaxed happiness in Alex’s chest, he hadn’t felt like this since he’d helped his father build that entertainment center a few years back. All of this from the nasty rain and wind which tore at the world outside of the cab. They both thought about the weather; one cursed it, one praised it.

6.
There had been some hard times when his father came close to losing their land. Back taxes, mortgage payments, and local debt (most of which was called in at the same time) had stripped his parents of most of their assets. All they had left were the 54 acres of dying land and an old house growing older. Alex was in Ft. Lauderdale, settling into the new house, when his mother called and told him that they might have to sell the farm.
Alex turned to Meg, who was lying nude on their queen-sized bed waiting for him to make love to her, and shook his head slowly. She understood and got dressed quickly and quietly. She left him and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Judging by Alex’s face she knew it was going to be a long night. There was Cinnamon Stick and Earl Grey so she made a cup of each. She’d let Alex decide which he was in the mood for.
Meg sat upright in the bed, a cup of tea in each hand, and listened to one side of the conversation.
“I’ll see what I can do, mom. You’re welcome. Love you too.”
Meg was taken aback, thought she may have heard him wrong. In the seven years she’d known him she’d never heard an “I love you” exchanged between Alex and his parents. It wasn’t that they didn’t love each other, it wasn’t that at all. It just seemed unnatural for them to say it to one another. A slight pang of jealously flashed through her: Meg felt a little slighted that the sentiment had not been directed at her that time. She shook it off and handed Alex the two cups of tea.
 “Cinnamon or Earl Grey? Quickly.”
The tea was getting hot and her hands were turning red so Alex grabbed the Cinnamon and set it on the night stand. Meg placed hers next to his and looked at him without speaking. She waited through the silence for him to collect his thoughts, knowing he’d speak when it was necessary and appropriate. Alex picked up the cup of tea from the table, brought the warmth to his mouth and smelled the sweet heat as he sipped. He sat holding the tea for a few minutes before finally speaking.
“My father never taught me the two most important life lessons for a young man to learn: sex and handshakes. He was always too embarrassed to discuss sex, or maybe he didn’t think he knew enough when I was in high school to teach me anything. He probably assumes that I know all I ever need to know about sex, he assumed that when I was in high school I’m sure. Basically, until I met you, I knew nothing about sex or women. I knew where things were and what they did, but that was just the technical stuff you learn in health class. In middle school and high school I heard things, playground terminology I guess you’d call it, but that isn’t a real education. I’d had experiences with myself, but that is as far as my introduction to sex went in high school. I never had the nerve to ask my father about anything beyond that. There was an awkwardness there that went beyond parent-child or teenager-adult. It was an unspoken agreement that such things were best kept behind closed doors, literally. Throughout high school I assumed my parents never had sex. I hadn’t seen or heard anything to convince me otherwise. Now I know that I was being ridiculous about it. Of course they probably had sex then, still do now I’m sure, it’s just that my father wants everything kept behind those closed doors. He doesn’t want his son seeing him in that light, he needs to separate that part of his life from the parental one.
“He was like that about business too. Anything concerning money or the financial situation of the family was discussed out of range of my hearing, behind closed doors. When friends would come over to help him out with what he owed or the bank would call up to talk about old loans, he’d shoo me out of the room. He is a man who lives most of his life behind closed doors. All things which could possibly reveal weakness or vulnerability about him have been shut away from me. It never really mattered to me, those closed doors, but now they’re in real trouble and they have to come to me and I can’t do anything about it. I should be able to do something about it. Just because he closed the doors for all those years doesn’t mean I should completely turn away. But now it’s too late to do anything.”
“We have some money. We can give it to them.”
“That’s money for our children, when we have them.”
“But we don’t have them, not yet. But your parents are here, now, and they need help. Why don’t you just give it to them?”
“I’m not sure. I think that--part of me thinks that they don’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve it. Maybe if he’d kept those doors open or...”
“Or what?”
“He could have tried harder. When I was growing up, he could have tried much harder. He never told me about sex. He never taught me how to shake someone’s hand. He was a man of pride and honor. A handshake was a dealmaker for him, a final step towards a coming together of two people. He based most of his business transactions on the grip of another man’s handshake. And he never even taught me how to do it properly. Like he thought I was too young or too naive to know the value of a sturdy handshake. Sex is the physical representation of the interaction of love. A handshake is the physical representation of the interaction of business. And my father never cared to discuss either with me.”
“Does that mean you should punish him, and your mother, for it?”
“He used to say that ‘It’s not work if you don’t sweat’. He never liked supermarkets or shopping malls because he thought that no one was working. No one was sweating or breaking their back over their labor. All they were doing was handing over something to a customer after they gave them money. It takes no thought or skill, no energy expended. And all they have to show for it is an empty space on the shelf where things used to be. He hates those people. Says they never deserve the money they’re paid. I feel the same way about him. I want him to sweat a little before I give it to him. It only seems right.”

7.
He went out to the ocean first, before driving north towards home. It wasn’t really something he’d planned on, he just happened to drive that way. He was in a mixed state of consciousness: half awake, half daydreaming. The repetition of the tar lines on the highway lulled him into a thick thinking, and he looked up from the road to find himself on the shoreline.
King bounded up and down the sand, seemingly forgetting the sadness which had been evident on his face earlier that morning. Alex just stared at the water crashing against the beach and wondered what he’d do. The sand felt good between his toes, warm and gritty. He was accessing emotions he thought he never had. That’s what Meg had done to him. When she was alive he felt love and adoration like he’d never thought he could. When she died, it was sadness which came from nowhere and made little sense. He knew how he should grieve, what should be done, but he never expected the depths to which it went. Beyond tears and depression, anger and resentment, he felt something greater than simple anguish. It was dying. He felt the dying in himself. And the only thing he seemed to be able to do was stare.
A breeze threw sand into his face, stinging slightly. He blinked the dust away and looked out towards King running in and out of the waves. There was something so simple, so contained in the way that the dog approached and retreated from the cresting ocean. Going back and forth. And back again. Playing tag with the salted sea. Alex called out to the energetic pup and walked towards the waterline. He smiled as he thought of Meg. She’d have run up to King, splashed him in the face and ran back to the dry sand. King would bark like crazy for a few seconds, then calm down before Meg would do it all over again. Going back and forth. And back again.
“C’mon King!” He gave the dog a whistle and watched its ears perk up instantaneously. “We’ve got a long way to go yet. And your gonna dry off before I let you back in the car.” As if he understood, King trotted to Alex’s side and stood still, waiting for the rough rub of his towel to dry him off. Alex walked to the truck, grabbed the yellow Charlie Brown towel and rubbed King down. The dog shook off any excess water and climbed into the cab with Alex. One last look in the rearview mirror at the quiet seashore and he was ready to go. One last look at what they had had. He came to a stop sign and looked both ways. Right meant returning to Lauderdale and the silent, lonely house. Left was the direction of starting over. Alex signaled, paused, and turned away from the past.

8.
People used to say he resembled James Dean: wild hair, tight and squinting eyes like he was always looking into the sun, sharply cut jawline, and a dangling cigarette to finish off the look. Nowadays when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror he doesn’t see that rebel at all. The hair is still wild, the eyes still squint but they’re a little darker, faint but present wrinkles have formed around his jawline; the only constant is the dangling cigarette. When he glances at himself in the mirror he doesn’t see James Dean at all. He looks more like Woody Guthrie now, or maybe like James Dean in his fifties (if that sporty little roadster hadn’t killed him). From folk hero to folk singer: a dignified, respectable, and admired personage: the face of an everyman’s everyman. He wouldn’t characterize himself as handsome, plain, or ugly; he was just lucky. Lucky to have made it this far without any personal endangerment. Lucky enough to have found someone like Meg; luckier still to have married her. Lucky enough to be the one attending the funerals instead of being the reason for one. Lucky, he guesses.

9.
Alex always seemed to be able to say the right thing when it was necessary, or hold his tongue when it wasn’t. When he met Meg he held it, held it good. He finally spoke about twenty minutes into their conversation after he picked her up from the diner, and happened upon the right words. And they weren’t even his.
“Where are you from?”
“Jersey.”
“Why are you here? in Tucson of all places?”
Alex shrugged his shoulders and grinned a little.
“You just up and decided to drive across the country for the heck of it?”
Alex nodded.
“Do you have any job contacts, or know anyone in the area?”
He shook his head.
“I have to say that I admire that. As fucking stupid as it is, I admire it, I admire you. To have the guts to hop into your car, loaded with all of your possessions no doubt, and just choose a city at random to start your life in, that’s pretty amazing. It is definitely not something I could ever do.”
Alex gave her a quizzical, contradictory glance and shook his head lightly.
“Seriously! I could never do anything like that. I’m moving to Florida in a few weeks, for instance. I would never have even thought about going there if it hadn’t been for the job that I was offered. I don’t know anything about Ft. Lauderdale, that’s where the job is: teaching, I’m going to teach elementary school history, I mean social studies. It should be--I’m looking forward to it. But I don’t know anything about the area where the school is or even what kind of weather to expect, I mean I know it’s going to be hot but--I don’t know anything! To think that someone would just pick up and go there, or here, or anywhere without so much as consulting a weather forecast: that’s too unbelievable, too untrustworthy.
“I’ve done nothing but think about the job, the location, the living arrangements, everything for since deciding to accept the position. Kept them waiting for weeks before I gave them a proper answer. I hemmed and hawed over the decision for what seemed like an eternity. I had to think it over and over. I probably over-thought it! It’s just too hard for me to shrug my shoulders, load my car, and follow my gut, or my destiny. Like you did. You went with a hunch, a suggestion, a whim inside of you that gave you the direction and purpose to act. To follow your destiny. I, on the other hand, thought and thought and thought some more until I had overanalyzed myself into paranoia. I’m still not sure that this is what I want to do, what I should be doing, or if I’ll be happy. I don’t know if I’ll ever know if this was the right move. The correct decision. Is this the place I’m supposed to go? Am I meant to travel this far from my family, from my home? I have a really bad feeling that I outthought destiny. I analyzed and criticized so much that any part that destiny had to play in my life is gone. I should have just followed your thinking: shrug my shoulders and head off into nowhere, let it fall where it may. Instead, I thought it out. And I have no idea if that thinking will take me where I should be going.
She stopped there fearing, knowing, that she had said too much and that he’d be ready say farewell and all set to hit the road again. She studied his face for a reaction, but couldn’t tell what the response would be. He took a big gulp of water, coughed lightly, and spoke.
“Thoughts lead on to purposes; purposes go forth in action; actions form habits; habits decide character; and character fixes our destiny.”
She stared at him blankly, not knowing what to say or how to respond. In the space of silence Alex lifted one finger towards their waitress.
“I’d love a piece of apple pie when you get a chance.”
A few days later, it was a little more than a week, Meg and Alex packed up his car with all that they could carry and headed off to the East coast. Neither of them knew what was happening, or what was going to happen, but they knew that it didn’t really matter. It would all work out in the end. The naiveté of youth was in their hip pockets, and the words of Tryon Edwards echoed in their minds.

10.
“I wrote home for the first time since we got here. I’m sure my parents will be happy to hear that everything is all right with me. With us.”
“I haven’t talked to my parents since I arrived in Tucson.”
“You should probably call them or send them a letter. Let them know that you’re okay.”
“I don’t think I care that much.”
And that was that. Alex walked outside to smoke a cigarette, a nasty habit Meg was trying to break him of. She stared at his form from the window over the kitchen sink trying to figure out what had happened to make him so embittered. She pushed herself to outrageous conclusions before completely dismissing the entire train of thought. “He’ll tell me when he’s ready.” Anyway, the dishes had to be washed and dried, so she set about the chore.
It was still present, that dose of “love at first sight” which had brought them together, accompanied by its cousin “lust at first sight.” That’s what had done it in the end, the seemingly unavoidable physical and emotional attraction between the two. That was the final push they needed to pack themselves into the car and drive to Florida. They were in Ft. Lauderdale before they even knew it, before the thrill was over. Luckily, after the initial thrill was gone the love and lust remained. There were quirks that needed to be explained and details discussed, but all of that was inconsequential. They could adjust to one another’s tiny insecurities.
The biggest problem was that neither Alex or Meg knew much about the other. They had attempted to catch each other up on their lives during the long trip east, but had been distracted by music, jokes, and sex. They went out to dinner their first night in Lauderdale, after unpacking the contents of the car into the new apartment. During the meal they exchanged life stories as best they could.

11.
She started off a lonely girl, quiet and afraid. Friends would come and go with regularity, and by the time she was seventeen she couldn’t count on anyone to guide her way or help her through the hard times. Had there been a friend to call on or a secret love to crush on she wouldn’t have had any problems. Of course, if she didn’t have any problems, she wouldn’t need a friend to call on for help or a secret love to crush on for distraction. High school was a journey best left unremembered. Any reflection upon the four year epic would undoubtedly turn Meg’s stomach and cause a few tears to be shed. A cure for the high school heartache was to remove herself from the environment which had caused all of the pain. By distancing herself from the realities of her own existence, Meg was able to overcome her forgettable past. The solution was found in a small liberal arts college far, far away from the reminders of misspent youth.
The overtly decorated brownstone which had seen her growth from child to teenager stood apart from the other houses on the block. Reflecting Meg’s own position, it sat back from the road and hid itself behind overgrown bushes and untrimmed trees. The house was a target for mischief-night pranksters and neighbor’s dogs, attracting an unwarranted amount of attention despite its attempts at seclusion. Even the row of bushes and the distance from the road could not prevent the attacks of juvenilia. Such was the life of Meg’s house. Such was the life of Meg.
Instead of overgrown bushes, she had long shaggy hair which hid her face from the world. She was set back from the main highway of high school social interaction. She wore baggy clothes so no one would know how she really looked. She walked home from school so that the kids on the bus wouldn’t know where she lived. At 3:35 every weekday afternoon she’d duck behind the row of bushes and disappear.
Three weeks into her sophomore year Meg was invited to join the Debate Club. A teacher who had gone so far as to pay attention to all of her students, even those she classified as ‘wallflowers’ (a group in which Meg was undoubtedly a member), had recognized a certain brilliant strength within the quiet girl. Mrs. Youngston, teacher of the social sciences, knew that if she really pushed it she could get Meg to come out of her shell. A little poking, a little prodding, and a dose of self-confidence would do wonders for the girl.
“Margaret, can I speak to you for a moment.” The rest of the U.S. History class shuffled unexcitedly out the door towards the next period, a look of miserable contentment on their collective faces. Meg approached the teacher cautiously. She knew that the last essay she’d written was pretty sub-par, she’d just thrown it together at the last minute instead of actually working on it like she would normally have done. She’d gotten a B-, not too bad considering, and thought that that would be the end of it. It certainly wasn’t bad enough to warrant a private conference with the teacher. Was it?
“Yes, Ms. Youngston?”
“I wanted to ask you about something. To see if you were interested.”
“Interested in what?”
“As you might know I am the teacher representative of the Debate Club. We are having a mock session on Tuesday of next week and I thought you might like to join us. I am sure that you would have a good time, we’re a fun bunch to spend an afternoon with.”
“I’m not really a good speaker. Public or otherwise. I don’t think I’d do a good job, so that’s okay. Thanks anyway.”
“Don’t dismiss it right away Margaret. I know how you are as a student. You’re very quiet in class, but very smart. You know what’s going on and how it all works. You just choose not to play the game, to be a spectator instead.”
“And I’m fine with that.”
“I’m sure you are. I just wanted to let you know what else is out there. What you might be missing.”
“I’m sure that I’m not missing much.”
“Well. It’s just something I thought you might enjoy.”
“Thank you anyway.”
Meg began to leave. Halfway out the door she paused.
“Where do you meet?”
A little taken aback, Mrs. Youngston paused for a second before answering.
“Why, right here. Tuesday. 3:30.”
Meg began to ‘come out of her shell’ on Tuesday afternoons. Three months after she began to attend the Debate Club meetings she cut her hair short and began walking more upright and attentive. She started speaking up in class, answering and posing questions even in subjects she was less than interested in. The unwinding of a human being is a wonderful thing to watch. A transformation takes place before your eyes and a brand new individual is born, created. Such was the change which Meg went through, under the continued enthusiasm of Mrs. Youngston. By her senior year Meg was well known, well liked, well respected. She’d come to a realization about herself, and set forth after graduation to continue with what she’d become. It was time to take the final step towards de-isolation: it was time to leave the guarded house and the overgrown bushes behind. Meg fled northward.

12.
He hadn’t really been drinking all that much when he got into the car. Just a few beers, maybe a cocktail or two on top of that, but certainly nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d done it a dozen times at least. It was only a ten minute drive, fifteen if he got caught at the traffic lights, and he’d be fine for those few moments before he could get home and get to bed. The bar had been crowded, but there wasn’t anything he wanted there. A few of the girls had piqued his interest, but just briefly. The only one there that had any prospect was already taken, judging by the rock on her finger and the tough bozo standing at her side, squeezing her to his chest.
“Fucking steroid jock.”
“Who?”
“The dickless wonder over there with the blonde. Look at her, he couldn’t handle her.”
“And you could?”
“Fuck yeah, I could. Give me another shot.”
“You getting a ride home buddy?”
“Yeah, course I am. What’s it matter to you anyway.”
“Here’s your drink. Have a good one.”
That faggot bartender. Cut him off after that. He was probably the steroid jock’s boyfriend. The two queers working together to keep him from getting to the hot pussy across the room. He downed the last shot, stood up and took off for the bathroom with a sour look on his face. Whenever he drank Scotch it burned when he took a piss. Mild side effects for a wild ride, he thought. Just another part of paying the tab. He zipped up and walked out, not bothering to wash his hands. It didn’t really matter anyway, who’d he be feeling up tonight? Nobody. Except himself, maybe, and he didn’t mind dirty hands. He’d only been touching his dick anyway, something he’d be doing later. No need to wash what is just going to get dirty again.
He dug the keys out of his pant’s pocket and stepped out into the false daylight that can only exist in the parking lots of bars and bowling alleys. His hand fumbled as he held the door open for a young couple entering the bar and he dropped his keys into a small puddle of rain and puke outside the front steps. Someone had made it outside before they hurled, but just barely. They made it two steps down, maybe three, before they lost all control and tossed their dinner over the side of the railing. Just where he’d dropped his keys. Luckily the rain was pretty steady and had washed it most away. He shook the keys out and gripped them tighter. Looking out into the false sunshine and pouring rain he realized that he didn’t know where his car was parked.
Fifteen minutes of wandering around, pressing the unlock button over and over to get the headlights to flash at him, found him at the back of the lot next to his almost brand-new Ford SUV. One of those traveling houses that the car companies tried to convince you you needed to fit all of the shit you carry around all day. He carted nothing more than a briefcase and a cell phone with him wherever he went, but he had all that extra room if necessary. Maybe one day he’d go camping, or have to drive some friends to a ball game; then he’d need the extra 50 cubic inches of cargo room, or the towing capacity of three big rigs, or the spacious interior of a luxury liner. One day he’d use those five other seats. One of these days.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, propelling himself up by using the fancy running board at his feet. He slid comfortably into the seat, turned the engine on, and started the music blaring: The Stones. He flicked on the windshield wipers, turned his head around and placed his arm over the back of the seat next to him (something his father used to do when he drove his truck) and backed out of the spot. He pulled up to the entrance/exit and pulled out without looking either way. It was a rainy Thursday night, no one would be out. He pulled onto the slick, empty blacktop and started on towards home. No, he wasn’t drunk yet, just a little tipsy. And it was only a ten minute ride, right? Fifteen if he got caught by the lights. And that wasn’t going to happen. Not with his 210 horsepower monster barreling down the road. There was no one out anyway. Not on a rainy Thursday night. So he just went through all the lights, green or yellow or red, he went through them all. The first two proved to be as empty as he expected. Only one more to go and he’d be home. Three more minutes tops. And he wasn’t drunk at all. Not one bit.
The light turned yellow about a tenth of the mile up the road. He forced the gas pedal down as far as it would go. It turned red a split second later. He kept the pedal to the floor. Meg, Margaret Allan Sears Corda, pulled her two-door Toyota out across the road, not driving too quickly because of the rain on the road and the fact that one of her headlights had burned out the day before. A piddiddle, her father used to call cars with one headlight. She laughed at herself for letting herself drive a piddiddle. “A piddiddle.” It was ridiculous sounding in the emptiness of the car, so she laughed harder. Then the light from her side shined brighter, too bright. “Why is it so light?” And then it hit. Her last thought was incoherent. ‘I’ll have to tell Alex to change the light on the car. It clearly isn’t bright enough for cars these days.’
He saw her just before they collided. She had a puzzled look on her face, like her features were trying to mix humor and fear at once and didn’t know how to properly express it. Then he blacked out. The collision knocked him unconscious and broke both of his legs. He had been traveling 75 miles per hour when he hit the Toyota and his huge Ford had torn Meg Corda to pieces.

Goddamn he was angry. Angrier than he’d ever been, and Meg and the rest of the world had seen a fair share of Alex’s anger. This was different, somehow. It went beyond rage or fury, it was pure, unadulterated anger. Blood-boiling. And the weirdest thing was that he was angry at her. He went to the hospital where they’d put her up almost on a technicality: she was only alive because of the machines and even they wouldn’t keep her that long. When he saw her there, broken and crumpled beneath the bedsheet he was furious at her. At her. Not at the drunk asshole who did this to her, but at Meg. “Stupid bitch. Couldn’t look both ways before pulling out into the street. What a fucking idiot.” He punched the wall next to her bed and began to cry. He was so angry, and he couldn’t keep it in. He yelled at her again. “Wake up Meg! Stupid fucking moron. Wake the fuck up! Look what you did! Stupid--wrecked the car too. Shoulda watched where you were going. How many times have I told you to pay attention!?!?” He cried again, harder this time, and sank onto the floor next to her bed, grabbing her hand as he went down. He laid there for a few minutes, not thinking anything in particular, until the steady beep-beep-beep of her heart gave way to one long, solid tone: death. Doctors and nurses rushed in but he pushed them away. “She was gone before I got here. Get the fuck out and leave me alone with my wife.”
He’d never slept so uneasy as those first few nights after she was gone. Any little sound, any stirring of the air would bring him straight out of the shallow rest he’d fallen into. A clock chiming the time would be Meg’s footsteps, a passing car would be her cough, phone calls would be her laugh. It was paranoia and desperation wrapped into one.

13.
He had dreams of her when he was young. Dreams that only a child’s imagination could produce. He had never seen his sister before, couldn’t have met her because she died before he was born, but there she was: vivid and dancing in a yellow and white sun dress, calling out to him as she spun faster and faster through the air.
“Alex! Alllleeexxxxx! Watch me!” And she would spin and spin. Often the dream consisted of him watching. Just sitting on the front porch and watching her spin, the twirling white and yellow half blinding him as he giggled from the top step, the handrail was always fixed in the dreams. It was the simplest dream he’d ever had, and he always awoke with a slight smile on his face whenever it came to him. He never thought he could miss someone he’d never even met. He certainly didn’t understand the pain he felt when that missing came. Sometimes he would picture her stretched out, arms spread as wide as they would go as she reached out for him to hold her.
“Don’t let go, Alex,” she’d plead as her arms reached forward. “Please don’t let go this time.”
But no matter what happened, no matter how hard his dream-self would try, Alex would always let go. He’d snap awake and look for her blindly in the darkness of his bedroom. All he would muster was a “Sam?” and a sigh. Those dreams were the worst, as terrible as the others were wonderful. He would watch her struggle, fighting to get out of the place she was in, trying to be reborn.
“Alex, it’s too hot here. I don’t like it anymore. Can’t I come back with you? I want to wake up when you do.”
And where was she? He couldn’t say for sure, but even at age ten he was certain that it wasn’t a land of fluffy clouds and harmonious angels. It was a place of sorrow and regret, home to the worst kind of memories. Samantha wanted to be gone from that place, the too hot place. His worst nightmare when he was a child was that he couldn’t bring his sister back. The dead sibling he’d never met, how he wished he could bring her back from that distant place of everlasting memories. That place where his father now rested.
Alex sat back and smoked; it was daylight and the birds were singing. He snapped on the beat-up radio on the porch and Roy Orbison drifted out of the speakers as smooth as silk: “Oh, pretty woman...” And just for a minute he forgot all of his troubles and finished his second cigarette of the day.

14.
The drinking never bothered him so much as the depths which it plunged her into. They were depths unspoken and unnoticed by some, but they were evident to him. They’re always evident to the children. A child’s ability to recognize that which is supposed to be hidden away, or secreted into silence, is often forgotten. Society overlooks the investigative brilliance of children. A nine year old girl visits her grandfather. He smokes a pack a day, coughs between every puff, and can’t run around as much as he used to. The young girl, does not know that cigarettes contain nicotine and are addictive, that they lead to cancer and emphysema, or that there are toxins within the dried and burning tobacco leaves. She does not know any of this, but she knows that they’re aren’t good for Pap-pap. She knows that Pap-pap will get hurt if he keeps breathing the smoke. Pap-pap will die. She also knows that he hides his cigarettes when the grandkids are around. He hides them good, so they don’t try to taste them. She knows where the cigarettes are hidden and she knows what to do when she finds them: crush and flush. A little nine year old girl, absent of the knowledge of nicotine and plumbing systems, will find those stinky cigarettes that make her Pap-pap cough and get rid of them. Alex was the kind of child who would hunt the cigarettes down and flush them away. And he was the kind of adult to get addicted to them twenty years later.
When Alex was twelve the drinking started. Not heavily at first, but picking up speed by his thirteenth year. It started on the 15th anniversary of Samantha’s death and didn’t end until she blacked out over the stove and nearly burned down the house. That happened when Alex was fifteen. Her weapon of choice was sleek and feminine, the most refined vehicle to take to Inebriationville: wine. Chablis, white, red, Cabernet, Rosé, it didn’t really seem to matter. She drank bottle after bottle with ease and patience. It was never particularly good wine, 4.99 a bottle at most, but she drank it anyway. Maybe the price was the reason why. For five dollars and some change she could forget the whole day, the whole week, her whole life. Five dollars to stop worrying and crying and missing. Five dollars and change to forget yourself for a few hours. Who wouldn’t partake?

15.
He looked out into the sinking sunlight and took one last drag off his cigarette. It was time to wake his mother up, get her ready for the rest of the day. Before he even had a chance to turn around he heard the screen door squeak open and then slam close, breaking the silence of his thoughts with an abrupt, echoing noise. He turned to see his mother standing there, holding the cup of tea he’d set aside for her. She was dressed all in black from head to toe, looking as beautiful as she had when she’d first met her husband. She gave Alex a tiny smile, reached out her hand and gently squeezed his arm. He felt the heaviness of tears about to crest but held them back and managed a little smile of his own. They linked arms and walked back inside to await the mourners and well-wishers who’d be arriving on the doorstep. As Alex opened the door for his mother he gave her a quick peck on the cheek. She stopped, her body halfway between inside and out, and gave him a thoughtful look.
“Have you been smoking again?”
He smiled. It felt good. He gave his mother another kiss and followed her into the house.

No one knows

Out on Ryan Road, three miles from the old church that was condemned and falling down, there is a young boy playing basketball in his family’s gravel driveway. The dusty, orange ball is flat and worn and the boy has to bounce it extra hard to make sure it comes back up and doesn’t roll away into the grass. He’s out there again because his mother is crying in the kitchen and has asked him to play outside. He is a good kid, listens to his parents and his teachers, never argues or talks back. So he is outside, just waiting until his mother calls from the front door to say that it is time to come inside and wash up for dinner. Until then, he will shoot at the rusty hoop and make believe that he is Michael Jordan and that the game is on the line. Headlights come up behind him, turning off of the road. He turns around and moves out of the way so that his father can park in the garage. The gravel crunches underneath the weight of his father’s car as it slows. His father parks and gets out of the car. He glances quickly at his son as he heads inside. The boy waits. Maybe tonight he’ll get to come in before the sun sets and it’s too dark to play; too dark to pretend.

The seven minute story

The seven minute story
(or: How much time I have until I leave here tonight)

5:23 pm
He drinks a little bit of coffee with each meal, never more than a whole cup. It’s just enough to get everything that he’s eating down and give him a little bit of a pick-me-up to counteract the sleepy lull that feeding time usually brings.

5:24 pm
It’s not often, however, that he dines alone. Most of the time he has his coworkers or his friends or his wife (or some combination of the three) with him. But not tonight. Tonight he is on his own, in this tiny restaurant.

5:25 pm
A little too crowded for his liking, but the food is good and the lights are low enough so that people may not see that he is eating alone. At least not right away, that is.

5:26 pm
He doesn’t mind the waiter or the busboy coming over and asking if he would like to order or does he want to wait for the other guest to arrive. It is only right that they would assume he wouldn’t be there alone.

5:27 pm
It’s the other people in the room, those that don’t ask his preference but only judge. They look at him and think “How lonely he must be.” or “What could be wrong with him?” They don’t know.

5:28 pm
They don’t know that he’s here alone on purpose. That this is one of the few times when he can sit by himself and think about where his life is leading. That the quiet of this crowded restaurant is what he needs. They don’t know that at all.

5:29 pm
So he sits and he holds his menu a little higher than usual, and concentrates on the words in front of him a little harder than usual, hoping that they’ll stop glancing in his direction and let him eat his dinner in peace. Hoping that they’ll go back to their steak tartar or orange roughy and let him be.

5:30 pm
Otherwise he might have to stand up and leave, food uneaten and bill unpaid. And there’s nothing more embarrassing than that.

Rain

It was raining hard when he stepped out of the house and went into the garage to start the car. He’d forgotten his umbrella and got soaked in the few feet of open space between the two doors. It was an 88 Ford. Rusted and decaying. Maybe it used to be red now it was more of a light pink. The sun and wind and god damn this rain had made a difference over the years. Buckled in and revving the engine. The gearshift was loose so he had to be careful when sliding it into reverse. Wouldn’t want to miss the mark and go tearing through the back of the garage with palms sweating as plaster came tumbling down and let that damn rain into the cluttered and dusty. He reversed out into the street checking both sides before continuing on down the street and away from the soft orange glow of his porch light. The radio was on spilling the 1930s out from the dashboard and onto the floor of the car with sounds of old jazz and boop-boop-boop of trumpets flaring up and scratching the speakers with too-high notes. He flicked the windshield wipers on and damn this rain the headlights too. There it was on the right that old oak tree on the corner that looked like it was going to fall over any moment now and crush the next car that passed which would be his and he got a little nervous and edged over to the other side of the road even into oncoming traffic that beeped long and hard at him but didn’t think to look at the dying tree in this god damn rain that might come crushing down at any moment and forget about wearing a seatbelt it would be too late at that point tale over. But it didn’t and he swerved back in time with the echoing long-lasting horn trailing off behind him the driver still angry even though he’d already passed and driven onward through the darkness and blurred vision of this god damn rain. This is he says the last time I ever forget to pay the rent on time.

Scar

Dear K-----

That scar looks wonderful there, rising thinly from your knee before thickening and knotting as it approaches the inside of your thigh. What makes it even more beautiful is that I put it there. I marked you with it; an unforgettable pronouncement. Even when those sad sailors see it white and gnarled beneath their fingers, you will know that you are mine. And always will be.
It was August and hot. There were three straight weeks without rain, turning the lovely suburban lawns from brilliant green to a muted, brittle yellow-brown. It was my favorite time of year. Everyone moved more slowly. People were less aware of themselves, less concerned with how they looked and acted. Much more vulnerable.
I had seen you out there, standing usually by yourself or, at most, with one other girl. You were always smoking. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to approach you, to enlist your assistance. I never heard you speak before that day, but I always imagined your voice to be falsely deep, the result of that constant smoking. As I watched you from my window, I imagined what your conversations with those men were like. I imagined what I would say to you. Nothing ever seemed right.
I remember that on the day before we met you were approached by two men at once. This had never happened before, as far as I could tell. You looked a little taken aback after the taller one said something, but rebounded quickly and accepted whatever proposition they had offered. I was jealous of them, as I was of all your companions. It wasn’t fair that I was stuck inside and could only look at you and never touch. It was just too hard not too touch. But I didn’t touch myself when I looked at you. I don’t want you to think that.
I will always love you, too. That’s something else you should know. Even from here, from this close darkness, I still love you. If you ever doubt that, just remember the scar. That beautiful scar. My gift to you forever.
Those two men, they didn’t love you. In fact, I think they probably loved each other. You were just their excuse. I never got to ask you what you did with them. Was it one at a time? Or both together? I’ve always wanted to know.
You could always write me back and tell me, if you wanted. But I imagine that that is too much to ask. I don’t think you like me very much. That saddens me. It saddens me like seeing those filthy men, those beggars and perverts and freaks, take you away with them. As if they could control you.
Please don’t forget about me while I am away. I will think of you everyday, every minute of every day. That is all they have left me here: thoughts and wants. You are in both. There are moments during the day when I am lying on my bed and staring at the colorless ceiling and thinking about you. About that scar. And the taste of blood in my mouth as I licked you. It was the taste of fear.
You were so good to me at first. You didn’t stare or laugh. You didn’t ask if I could perform, you just took my hand and led me back towards my building.
“I’ve seen you watching me,” you said. Your voice was softer than I’d imagined.
You had seen me. I was so enraptured that I didn’t notice. That’s how much you distract and beguile me. I was so happy when you told me that. So happy that we’d been watching one another.
There we were in my bedroom, the shades drawn and the lights off. You helped me out of my shirt and laid me down on the bed. You approached slowly, undressing as you came. Beauty personified. Nude, you proceeded to undress me, pulling my pants and underwear off simultaneously. I looked down and saw that I was erect. You moved beside me, taking me into your hand.
Not once did you laugh or shudder. The marks and scars did not bother you. I was so happy. It was beyond sex, beyond pure physical gratification. Far better than any late-night imaginings. I had to finish it, to bring us closer. I asked if I would touch you, taste you. You hesitated. There was a look of concern in your eyes. I told you it would be okay, that you would like it.
I stood up before you to take it all in, to see your beauty in its entirety. There, beneath my feet, lay my discarded pants. In the pocket was the Swiss Army knife that my father had bought me when I was 8. I reached down and took it from the pants, opening the longest blade and holding it up in the dim light from the streetlights outside. You looked at me, then at the knife. You couldn’t help it.
“I carry it with me everywhere,” I said. “In a city like this, you can never be too sure.” I smiled. You had never looked so beautiful.
I climbed onto the bed, holding the knife firmly. I began to kiss and caress my way up your right leg. I kissed the bend of your knee and looked up at you. There was fear there.
“Shhh. It’ll be okay,” I said, pressing the tip of knife into the flesh below your kneecap. You twitched and screamed out, but I held your leg there and slowly moved the knife upwards, applying more pressure as I went. I am always telling people that I’m stronger than I look. Aren’t I? You screamed out and kicked at me, but I know you didn’t mean it. You wanted this. You wanted us to be joined like this forever.
I slid the knife along the inside of your thigh, the blade about halfway in, and approached the soft patch of hair. That was my stopping point, I thought. I can’t go any further than that. The blood was seeping out onto my hand and onto the bed. When I reached as far as I would go, I pulled the knife out slowly, accompanied by more screams.
I threw the knife to the floor and licked along the open space where it had been, running my tongue from there into your patch of hair, feeling the wetness of sex and blood mix within my mouth. And I came again.
It was wonderful, wasn’t it? Something that only certain people can experience. I was not another John to you. I was someone special. I was the closest thing to God that you’d ever seen.
That scar looks wonderful there, rising thinly from your knee before thickening and knotting as it approaches the inside of your thigh. What makes it even more beautiful is that I put it there.
I put it there.