Issue 171

This issue features

• photo by Tomnex,

• fiction by Janyce Stefan-Cole,

• poetry by John Taylor / Charline Lambert,

• poetry by Vyacheslav Konoval,

• photo by Tyler Olson, and

• fiction by Aaron Tillman

Tomnex

Peanut M&Ms

Janyce Stefan-Cole

The Hard Parts

It was Saturday night. An empty packet of M&Ms, left over from Halloween, and a tumbler of Bushmills, ice already melted, sat on the desk where Bianca typed. The glass of whiskey rested a safe distance from the keyboard. Her cat Molly purred heavily on her lap.

Bianca wore her lucky underpants beneath a pair of faded jeans. The panties were meant for occasions where a bit of luck might be desired; a secret talisman underneath the perfect little black dress while negotiating a tricky conversation—having nothing to do with sex and everything to do with ambition. Better than a wineglass or cigarette as prop; picturing the sparkly drawers slung low over her rear as she schmoozed a powerful contact. Not having done a wash in a week was her excuse for tempting fate by wearing the black velvet rhinestone-encrusted panties at work, at home. The label recommended washing separately in cold water, but she’d toss them into the machine with everything else, once she got around to doing a wash.

She was knocking out detective dialogue, promising herself a reward, a sip of whiskey if she finished the page she was on. The script was in trouble. Her characters were set, the plot secure, but she did not yet know what the story was meant to be, what its metaphor was and that gave her a feeling of weightlessness, as if she could blow apart like a dandelion, seeds hinged together in a wispy globe until set loose by a random breeze.

The telephone rang just as she typed the J in James, startling her in the empty house. Molly jumped off her lap and ran off. Bianca glanced at the clock. Her husband Danny was in Europe, where it would be close to four AM. Most of her friends would be out having fun of a Saturday night. She was not expecting a call. The phone ringing at nearly any time of day felt like an intrusion. Bianca preferred to be reached by email, or not at all, when she was writing.

The insistent chime refused to let up. She grabbed the receiver and offered a curt hello, her hand stiffening hearing an unknown male voice from the intruding end of the line.

“Is this Banka Swan?”

Her hippie parents had cursed her with her name, but it wasn’t that hard to read and pronounce. They could have made matters worse by skipping the translation, called her White, or Snow, or Snow White. She would not have put it past them. Bianca’s mother had been a bona fide flower child; commune, free love, people power; peace. Her father was a lefty radical who’d shortened Swanson to Swan and eased her passive, pot-smoking mother into a more politically acute life. They ran an alternative book store in San Francisco that did well enough for them to eventually sell and move up to Napa, to raise Bianca as an earth child. The result was a flower-loathing, savvy city girl with designs on money, loads of it, to be made writing for television. Bianca had already sold one pilot, and another was in negotiation. She had an agent, drive to spare, and an ear for dialogue. Invited to all the right parties, she knew show runners by their nicknames, and, was rarely waylaid by doubts; Bianca Swan was on the way up.

“I could be Bianca Swan,” she replied testily. “Who might you be?” She’d give whoever was pestering her one more sentence before hanging up.

“Ms Swan, this is Detective Lawrence with the Fifty-fifth Precinct. Are you alone at the moment?”

She hung up.

The phone instantly re-rang. She seized it, but before she could utter a word of protest the caller jumped in: “Don’t hang up, Miss Swan!” This time the voice had the hard edge of authority that signaled the cops.

Bianca’s neck hairs stood on edge. If there was one thing she and her parents did share, and share deeply, it was an attitude toward authority. Her father called it common sense; the pigs, he’d say (stuck in the lingo of the late sixties) are on the side of money and power, keeping the little guy in line, head down. Policemen, her mother added, were not to be trusted. Bianca went further: anyone telling anyone what to do had no business in a free society. This is where she and her parents parted meanings. Her mother’s goal was freedom to embrace the earth and share in the joy of it, while her father meant free of the military industrial complex that threatened to eat Amerika alive. Bianca’s idea was to profit freely by any means necessary, with zero regulation.

“I’m listening,” Bianca replied.

Detective Lawrence told her his badge number, adding a telephone number in case she wanted to be sure he was on the level. Bianca looked up at a line of dialogue on the computer screen: Lily: ‘It makes no sense, James; people don’t just disappear into the night.’

“That could just as easily be a setup, couldn’t it, Detective Lawrence, giving me a number to call? Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

Less sure now, she hoped the call was for a donation to some police benefit. She would of course refuse to cough over a single dime, and then hang up for good. After that she’d do a wash load, get the lucky panties off. They might be jinxing her tonight.

“You’re right to be cautious, Ms Swan,” the detective was saying. “I’ll start over: Do you know an Alexander Santos?”

Here was another anomaly in Bianca’s life. Her do-gooder mother had discovered Alexander Santos in a coffee shop and adopted him, as if the eighteen-year-old were a lost puppy. She’d taken him home to the sprawling Napa house where Bianca was summering between her junior and senior college years. Alexander had left Argentina two days after high school graduation. He’d drifted his way up to Napa Valley, sort of on his way to Wisconsin, where his mother was from. A short kid with a toss of light brown hair, dark Latino eyes and pale gringo skin, Alejandro—as he preferred to be called then—quickly teamed up with Mr. Swan, joining a protest movement against the plight of migrant workers.

Alexander’s mother, Betty Lang, was a singer who’d gone to Buenos Aires to work the nightclubs. Señor Santos, twenty years older and wealthy beyond her imagination, picked her up in one of the classier clubs. He had not expected to marry the pretty gringa, but she made him laugh and then she gave him a son, and then a second son. Alejandro was six when his Papa died. His mother quickly fell under the spell of her domineering mother-in-law and lisping sister-in-law: Doñas dressed in black like figures in a Goya painting. Betty turned pious overnight, burned her evening gowns to live frugally in widow’s weeds, though she sat on a fortune her sons would one day inherit.

Alexander was afraid of his grandmother and aunt, the Goya witches who had stolen his mother’s laughter. There was the indignity too of being male in a female household. Taking up the cause of farm workers and indigenous people was a perfect way to defy his heritage while satisfying his aunt’s instilled idea of self-sacrifice. Under Peter Swan’s manly tutelage, Alejandro quickly developed a knack for getting under the skin of ranch owners, factory managers and the local police.

He and Bianca grew close that summer. He’d described his miserable life in Argentina, remembering of his father only a thick dark moustache. At first Bianca mocked him to try to toughen him up. Alexander was gentle beneath the angry rhetoric, so serious and studious, a book always at hand. Bianca’s mother said Alexander was the brother she never had and they all called him hermanito.

A few years after she’d settled in New York City, far from her parents—though LA was the town for an aspiring TV writer—Alejandro showed up at her apartment. Out of the blue one afternoon, insisting now on being known as Alexander. He’d tried living with his mother’s family in Wisconsin but they turned out to be a close-lipped, suspicious lot, and none too bright; a total of two books in the entire house, one of them The Bible. He understood why his mother had fled into the world of entertainment, even if her talent lay mostly in the angle of her hips. Alexander stayed with Bianca until he found a menial job, sweeping hospital corridors at night. During the day he wrote political tracts in a shabby walkup, surrounded by books, street noise and cockroaches.

Alexander had bursts of brilliance. He began writing a book, handing Bianca long passages to read. He knew everything, from Shakespeare to the Old Testament, from world history to fashion. He had a library crammed into two rooms that would have been the envy of a small college. Books were a weakness; he believed in them and tried to live them. He had the soul of a poet, the mind of a reformer, and, Bianca added, the practicality of a child. Alexander couldn’t boil an egg; he did not understand the bottoms of plates needed washing as well, or that his diet should include a measure of protein.

They argued constantly like sibling opposites. He longed to be the conscience of the market-ruled world; cleaning house could wait. Bianca told Alexander his ideas were bankrupt. To which he’d insist all life was political; one day she would understand how cruel the world could be, and her song would change.

“Tune,” Bianca corrected: “You mean my tune will change.”

“It will!”

He’d been arrested that first summer in Napa, protesting alongside illegal Mexican grape pickers. Bianca and her mother bailed him out, and she understood that day that the defiant Alejandro needed protecting.

“What’s he done now, Detective Lawrence?” Bianca asked. “Joined a factory strike, or did he occupy the White House?”

“Ms Swan, I had reason to ask if there was anyone with you.”

Bianca felt the rhinestones of her lucky panties pressing into her flesh, under the close-fitting jeans. She glanced at the next line of dialogue on the screen: James: “Which is why I think this one is going to end badly, Lily.”

She thought she heard a noise behind her and reached for the glass of whiskey, ready to throw it if need be. “Is he hurt? I’ll come right away.”

The Detective’s tone was matter of fact. “Ms. Swan, Alexander Santos is dead.”

Lily: “You think they’re ‘gonna leave him out to dry?”

James: “It’s no secret Lily, he made plenty of enemies.”

Lily: “I always said he’d go too far one day.”

The room seemed to narrow and darken around Bianca, seated in her ergonomically correct swivel chair. She touched her left arm with her right hand, the fingertips cold from the whiskey glass. She held her arm anyway, the sharp cold steadying her.

Something like THE END formed itself in her mind, like the last frame of a silent film: white letters against a black background.

She said, quietly, “No.”

Detective Lawrence told her he’d be at her house in an hour. He and his partner, Detective Perillo, had some questions. Did she have a key to Alexander’s apartment? She said she did. “He has a cat,” she added.

After hanging up the phone, Bianca went downstairs with the emptied whiskey glass. She grabbed two ice cubes from the freezer and walked over to the bar, but did not pour herself another drink. She wandered around the living room holding the empty glass, and then went upstairs. After a peek at the computer, she wandered back downstairs.

There was nowhere to place the information of Alexander being dead. It had no meaning. Bianca felt the way a boxer must feel after too many blows to the head; punch dumb, unable to form a clear thought. Wandering the house seemed to make sense. Sitting still was not an option.

She found Danny’s number in Brussels and dialed. A sleepy voice answered, announcing the name of the hotel. Bianca asked for the room number in French. The phone rang eight times before Danny picked up. He sounded frightened when he said hello.

“Danny?”

“Oh, Bianca, it’s you. What time is it?”

“I don’t know, late. Near five where you are.”

“I was sleeping.”

“Danny, Alexander is dead.”

“Alexander?”

Danny did not believe Bianca and Alexander had never been lovers. If at no other time since, he’d said, certainly they had been at her parent’s house that first summer in Napa. Bianca finally gave up protesting. Danny had said, “Well, why not? He’s too freaky, right?”

“He’s not freaky!” she’d insisted.

“No. But you know what I mean. The guy is so, I don’t know, lost.” It was a sore spot between them that Bianca felt Danny condescended to Alexander.

“Did you hear me, Danny?”

“Yeah, I heard. I don’t understand. Was there an accident?”

“The police called.”

“The police?”

“My name was in his wallet.”

“Your name was in his wallet?”

“Danny, do you want to stop repeating everything I say?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. They’re coming in a little while.”

“The police? Why?”

“To ask me— I really don’t know why!”

“Maybe you should call Eric or somebody. Call my brother.”

“Your brother’s a dope.”

“No, he’s clumsy is all. Look, you should have someone there with you.”

“Someone like you? You’re never here for a crisis!”

“How many have we had?”

“Plenty.”

Danny was quiet.

Bianca felt a futile sense of resentment that Danny was in Brussels while she was left alone to deal with something that was so hideous it had no shape. But at the same time, she knew Danny would be useless with a thing like this. Alexander was hers and the pain, when it came, would be hers alone.

“I’ll call Eric,” she finally said.

“Yeah, and then get some sleep.”

Bianca said, “You get some sleep.”

“Yeah.”

“YOU THINK YOU’LL BE ABLE TO!” she shouted into the phone.

Danny let out a breath. “No, I guess not.” But Bianca knew he would sleep.

By midnight, the police still hadn’t shown up. Bianca had a bad case of hiccups. She tried to sit on the couch but jumped up again. Before Eric came, Danny called. He asked her if she thought Alex had, “You know…” He couldn’t get his head around it any other way.

Bianca said softly, “Is it daylight there yet?”

“The birds are chirping.”

“Bring me back some chocolates.”

She told Danny Eric had been at a party, sounded like he’d had plenty to drink, but was on his way over in a cab. “Eric’s good,” Danny said. “And listen, call the police, tell them to let it wait until morning. What the hell, Bianca, you shouldn’t have to go through this.”

“And your brother called.”

“Yeah, I phoned him to check on you.”

“Thanks, Danny, but the guy, really ... he said people like Alexander belong in psyche wards. He’s a prince of sensitivity.”

“Yeah, Ronnie’s a little blunt, I guess.”

The doorbell rang and Bianca said a hurried good-bye. Eric was outside, a yellow cab pulling away from the curb as Bianca opened the door to let him in.

He was soon sprawled on the couch, doing his best to appear sober. He wasn’t smashed drunk and was genuinely trying, and Bianca was glad he’d come. She said she’d make coffee. The bottle of scotch stood on the kitchen counter; an amber sentry over a bitter night. Eric had filled a glass for himself and left the bottle uncapped. Bianca didn’t pour herself another drink, wanting to be alert for the cops. She was pacing, talking to Eric. It was after one.

“What’d they say he died of, B?”

“They didn’t.”

“What’s with all the mystery, was he murdered or something? Who would murder poor old Alex?”

“I don’t know. Why do you call him poor?”

“Well, c’mon, the guy’s damaged goods.”

“No, he isn’t—wasn’t. Do you really think that?”

“Maybe not damaged, but all those books ... always on some sort of hopeless mission. You know what I mean.”

“You never said that. You used to have fun with him here at dinners.”

“No, I like the guy.”

“He didn’t blend in.”

“No.”

“His baby brother fell into a volcano. Then his father died. He was wrecked from the beginning.”

“How does a kid fall into a volcano?”

“They were touring, or something. A dead volcano—somewhere in Mexico.”

“Popocatepetl?”

“What? No, that one’s active, I think. A cold volcano. He hit his head…”

“Oh.”

“This is awful,” Bianca said, sitting heavily on an armchair.

“Yeah,” Eric said. “It’s sad.”

“You want to hear something funny? I was typing detective dialogue when a real detective called. How funny is that?”

“Funny.”

The two of them started to laugh. They were laughing when the doorbell rang. “Uh-oh,” Bianca said, “The cops!”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Eric said. The remark started them laughing again.

“I feel so guilty.”

Eric said, “Cops do that to a person. You didn’t kill him, did you?”

The doorbell rang again.

“Eric, we have to do something!” Bianca’s stomach hurt, she hiccupped.

“Like what?”

“Is everything alright in here?”

“Why, you have grass lying around or anything?”

“No! But I think a friend of my dad’s sent some LSD a while ago. I think Danny stuck it in the freezer in a white envelope. Suppose they look in the freezer?”

“I think they lack probable cause, B.”

Suddenly Bianca wanted to talk to her father. She always called him Peter, never daddy or dad. Her mother was Jane, Jane Swan, but she called her mom, Peter and Jane Swan of the latter day hippies. She tried so hard not to be like them, to fit in so people like Eric and her businessman brother-in-law Ronnie—and even Danny—would like her. She’d wanted to rip out all her hippie roots. Right now though she felt like her parents’ daughter: rebellious, off the mainstream; not like her friends. She knew that was what she and Alexander shared at bottom, a sense of not belonging. Her way of not belonging was more successful than his, but it was still a facade. She was a faker.

Alexander Santos was not. He walked a line not even Peter Swan walked. Her mother was right; Alexander was her brother, and she hadn’t protected him.

James: “They were gonna get him, Lily. One way or the other, they’d get him.”

Lily: “But how, James? These things are never that cut and dry.”

Detectives Lawrence and Perillo held their shields high at the front door peep hole when Bianca finally made it downstairs. She apologized for taking so long. A friend had come over, she explained, to keep her company. Her husband was away on business.

The Detectives nodded as they followed her upstairs to her duplex in a two-family.

She introduced Eric, and the four of them sat down at the kitchen table, Bianca opposite Detective Lawrence, Eric across from Detective Perillo. Detective Lawrence did most of the talking. They both pulled out pads and pens. Before she sat down, Bianca caught a glimpse of the opened bottle of scotch on the counter. She explained that Eric had had a drink, adding that she hadn’t. She didn’t dare look at Eric for fear of laughing.

The pit of her stomach hollow, Bianca did not want to talk to the police. This time it was more than her inherited distrust. She wished she could magically transport herself to Napa. Why had she been in such an insistent hurry to grow up and leave? Was she ashamed of Peter and Jane, as her friends and Danny were of Alexander, because it wasn’t cool to protest and to question when so much money was to be made? Danny had once called her father a throwback.

Detective Perillo suddenly sneezed. Molly had sauntered into the room. “Are you allergic?” Bianca asked.

“It’s alright,” Detective Perillo answered, pulling a wrinkled white handkerchief out of his pocket.

Detective Lawrence said to Bianca, his gaze steely, his voice bland, “What can you tell us about Alexander Santos?”

Bianca folded her hands in front of her on the table. “Alexander,” she said, “wanted to save the world.”

Eric nodded, folding his hands on the table too.

Bianca, the writer, was perfectly aware this was not what the cops wanted to hear. But what did their reality have to do with hers, or with Alexander’s? In her mind she added the next line of dialogue to her script. It was James speaking: “I don't know how they got rid of him, Lily, but we’ll have to get to the bottom of it, the boys in charge will want answers.”

Detective Lawrence scratched the back of his neck. “When did you see him last?”

“Wednesday. We had dinner.”

“How did Alexander seem on Wednesday?”

Bianca lowered her eyes. “A little down, I guess, but that wasn’t unusual with him.”

“Why do you suppose yours was the only name in his wallet?”

“Alexander grew up in Argentina. He has family on his mother’s side, somewhere in Wisconsin, but I was his family here.”

“You’re related?” asked Detective Perillo.

“No. Not technically.”

“But you can get us into his apartment?”

“Yes, I have a key.”

“The landlord already let us in,” Detective Perillo said.

“Oh,” Bianca said. So that was a trick question, about access to Alexander’s apartment? She began to feel uneasy, like a suspect. “Then you already went there?” She pictured Alexander’s mess, all the political manifestos and books, dirty dishes in the sink, laundry on the floor, bed unmade.

Detective Lawrence asked, “Did Mr. Santos have enemies?”

It was odd hearing Alexander called Mr. Santos. Bianca sneaked a glance at Eric. His knuckles were white. Was he thinking she killed him? She said, “He was a political person.”

They were only doing their jobs, but would two cops on the homicide beat understand a borderline anarchist with dreams of a more just world? Anything she said to explain Alexander would sound ridiculous to them: an idealist and the police. Peter Swan would know how to handle this. He’d know his rights.

“You mean with political enemies that might do him harm?” Detective Perillo asked, holding the hankie under his nose.

Eric shifted in his seat. Bianca said, “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know anyone who would harm Alexander.”

“Your friend was a troublemaker, wasn’t he?”

“He wanted more for humanity. That’s not something to kill a person over, is it?”

“No one said anything about being killed,” Detective Lawrence said, his eyes a little less steely.

Detective Perillo pushed back in his chair. The cat was staring at him. Eric watched the cat.

Detective Lawrence said, “Your friend has to be officially identified. Are you prepared to do that?”

Bianca’s stomach clenched. “I don’t know.” She paused. “How would I know?”

“Someone has to do it, and someone has to notify the family in Wisconsin—or Argentina; both.”

Bianca shook her head. “I met his mother once. Her health is poor. I can’t do this, Detective.”

“If not you, who?”

Detective Perillo sneezed again. He said, “You haven’t asked us how Mr. Santos died, Miss Swan.”

“I’m guessing he took his life.”

“There were signs?”

Alexander’s face came to her, his hair already receding, the weight he’d put on, his eyes by turns angry or too wide open, eyes she’d not looked into often enough. The image was of a photograph beginning to fade; a world of regret and self-blame taking shape inside her. Why didn’t Alexander call her if he was in trouble? “Would I have known if there were—signs?”

The policemen stood up.

“Okay,” Detective Lawrence said. “We’ll come by tomorrow afternoon, take you over to his apartment—just routine, since you’re acting next of kin. In the morning you’ll go over to County to ID Alexander. Okay?” Softening his tone slightly—Detective Lawrence was clearly not the hand holding type—he added, “That’ll be one of the hard parts, owing to the nature of death. Alright?”

Bianca said, quietly, “That will be one of the hard parts?”

Detective Lawrence wrote on a piece of paper torn from his pad, and placed the paper between them on the table. “So here’s the address of the morgue, they’ll be expecting you.”

Bianca didn’t touch it. She didn’t ask the nature of death either, or what part of this entire night wasn’t unendingly awful. She stood to let the detectives out of her house. Their work was basically done; a few details, a report to file, hers was just beginning.

Lily: “Is there ever a bottom to something like this?”

After the cops left, Eric offered to stay the night, to sleep on the couch. Bianca thanked him but said she’d be alright. It was after three when he left. He said he’d come back in a few hours, would go to the morgue with her. He looked ashen and she knew he did not want to go, but she didn’t want to go either.

She put the cap back on the scotch bottle and went upstairs. Turning off the computer, she thought she might understand what her script meant, and it struck her as odd how the mind continued when everything felt like falling off a cliff. She thought again of her parents. Jane would cry when she told her of Alexander’s death. It would be weeks before Bianca cried.

She threw the lucky panties into the trash; they had acquired a new, terrible meaning. She’d wear a pair of Danny’s boxers to the morgue in the morning.

Turning out the light, she remembered Verdi’s opera, RIGALETTO; Alexander had tickets for Wednesday night. The plan was for dinner before, her treat. He’d introduced Bianca to the opera, and RIGALETTO was a favorite. The tickets would be in his apartment. And there was the matter of the cat.

Copyright © by Janyce Stefan-Cole.

About the Author

Janyce Stefan-Cole has published two novels: The Detective’s Garden and Hollywood Boulevard (Unbridled Books). Publications include: The Adirondack Review, Sandstorm Journal of Arts & Letters, Rattapallax Magazine, The Broadkill Review, The Laurel Review, The Open Space, Pank. "Conversation with a Tree" won Knock Literary Magazine’s Eco-lit prize. Anthologies include: Being Human; Editions Bibliotekos, The Healing Muse; SUNY Upstate Medical University, Dick for a Day; Villard Books. She is a visiting novelist at Texas University of the Permian Basin.

from Decarceration

Charline Lambert

Translated from the French by John Taylor

Liquid curves,

water hips, pelvis

flooding with blood—

a life

canalizes this.

*

You want luminance so luminance will have come,

an aura half-opening your shutters,

flooding

over you

all its freshet.

*

Limpid when you are

naked as a river

diked up

by these hands.

*

In regard to you, use

defective verbs

to keep open

the place

you deserted.

Excerpted from Désincarcération (©Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2017).

About the Author

John Taylor’s most recent translations are, from the French, José-Flore Tappy’s Trás-os-Montes (The MadHat Press) and Philippe Jaccottet’s Ponge, Pastures, Prairies (Black Square Editions), as well as, from the Italian, Franca Mancinelli’s The Butterfly Cemetery: Selected Prose 2008-2021 (The Bitter Oleander Press). His most recent books of poetry are Transizioni, a bilingual volume published in Italy by LYRIKS Editore and illustrated by the Greek artist Alekos Fassianos, and Remembrance of Water & Twenty-Five Trees (The Bitter Oleander Press), illustrated by the French artist Caroline François-Rubino. He lives in France.

de Désincarcération

Charline Lambert

Courbes liquides,

hanches d’eau, bassin

s’inondant de sang,

canalise

une vie.

*

Tu veux clarté alors clarté sera venue aura

entrouvert tes persiennes

se déversant

sur toi

dans toute sa crue.

*

Limpide quand tu es

nu comme un fleuve

endigué

par ces mains.

*

À ton égard user de verbes dits

défectifs

pour maintenir

ouvert

le lieu de ta désertion.

About the Author

Charline Lambert was born in 1989 in Liège, Belgium. She is the author of four prizewinning books of poetry: Chanvre et lierre (“Hemp and Ivy,” Éditions Le Taillis Pré, 2016), Sous dialyses (“Dialyzing,” Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2016), Désincarcération (“Decarceration,” Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2017), and Une salve (“A Salvo,” Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2020). She is currently finishing her Ph.D. thesis on the relation between poetry and deafness.

Vyacheslav Konoval

untitled

A new moon was born long nights are harbingers of winter

the earth put on white tents, everything is in white,

as if it were with grandmother's carpets.

Copyright © by Vyacheslav Konoval.

untitled

Year of Darkness

A snowflake pinches the cheek,

the frost bites jokingly,

the fog is sliding on the ice.

Copyright © by Vyacheslav Konoval.

untitled

There are thousands, tens of thousands of them.

Maybe hundreds of thousands of worldly souls

that flew to heaven, from the sooty piles of smoke

from the huts of towns and villages.

God why such a punishment?

Copyright © by Vyacheslav Konoval.

About the Author

Vyacheslav Konoval is a resident of Kyiv, Ukraine, whose work is devoted to the most pressing social problems of our time, such as poverty, ecology, relations between the people and the government, and war. His poems have appeared in many magazines, including Anarchy Anthology Archive, International Poetry Anthology, Literary Waves Publishing, Sparks of Kaliopa, Reach of the Song 2022, Diogenes for Culture Journal, Scars of my heart from the war, Poetry for Ukraine, Rhyming, La page Blanche, Norwich University Research Center, Impakter, Military Review, The Lit, Allegro, Innisfree poetry journal, Atunes Galaxy Poetry, Ekscentrika, Mere Inkling, EgoPhobia, Fulcrum, Omnibus, Adirondack Center for Writing, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Revista Literaria Taller Igitur, Tarot Poetry Journal, Tiny Seed Literature Journal, Best American Poetry Blog, Quilled Ink Review, Chronograph Poetry Journal, the Appalachian Journal, and Dark Horse. His poems have been translated into Spanish, French, Scottish, and Polish. His poems also have been read at meetings of various poetry groups, including Newman Poetry Group, Never Talk Innocence, Voicing Art Poetry Reading for Ukraine, Worcester County Poetry, Brussels Writer's Circle, and Poets Anonymous May Middle-Met, Brett Show by Andrea, the Manx Bard group, and Allinghman Art Festival. He is a member of the Geer Poetry Group (Wales) and a member of the Federation of Scottish Writers.

Tyler Olson

Patient Undergoing a CT Scan

Aaron Tillman

The Kennebunk Correction

Winner of the 2022 Gival Press Short Story Award

When my head hammered the hard plastic tail of the cat’s ass magnet on the side of our stainless steel refrigerator, I temporarily lost consciousness. I tripped over one of the smoky blue massage balls that had been roaming around the house since my sister Ruby bought them.

According to Ruby, in the 15-20 second span before losing consciousness, I rattled off a litany of disappointments, a pitiful account of the lower-level injustices I’d experienced: from being rejected at my junior high school dance to being cut from the cross country team (something I was assured was not possible) to playing countless inanimate objects in school plays—my turn as the giant rock in an adaptation of William Steig’s Sylvester and the Magic Pebble as close as I ever came to a lead role—to the very condition that kept me cooped up with my sister more often than not, before I dropped and my sister, quite predictably, giggled rather than gasped.

Even when I regained consciousness, Ruby was still laughing. How do I know she was laughing when I was knocked out? I know my sister. And I know myself. That’s how we handle such things. It wasn’t cruelty—though it is often interpreted as some form of callous insensitivity—just a juvenile and possibly biological inability to address any form of discomfort head on. A trait we share. Our parents’ funeral was a fiasco.

Our discomfort often manifests in beet-faced snickers. It ruined Ruby’s teaching “career.” When a child musters the courage to admit that he doesn’t understand the lesson, and the teacher bursts out laughing, that’s pretty much the end of it. At the very least, it’s a featured item in the annual assessment.

Although our deficiencies always snicker to the surface eventually, over time we have become fairly skilled at hiding them or holding them in, pretending the reaction was something else—not really laughter at all. Sometimes that effort is successful, and we can effectively divert our focus and project a more complex emotional reaction. My sister is better at that than me. But other times, we simply burst—uncontrollable, teary-eyed guffaws and snorts and even spontaneous hand slaps.

So the image of me lying on the kitchen floor unconscious hardly scratched the surface. No need to even try to stop the flood. And no outward blood to frighten or to clean. The damage and defects were all internal.

The only problem was that getting knocked out was still serious. I had to go to the hospital, and my sister had to get me there. Taking action was neither of our strong suits. Even when that action was obvious—burbling right in front of her eyes.

Not surprisingly, my sister opted for a ride service. The surprise was that she accompanied me to the hospital. Perhaps my groggy state made her genuinely nervous, despite the giggles that caused the driver to suggest we were drunk, winking with a smile and a nod as if my sister and I were injury-prone lovers. Ruby just nodded back, which was always easier than attempting to explain.

By the time we arrived, I was still light-headed and woozy, but able to walk on my own. My sister led me through the plexiglass turnstile, wide enough and slow enough for us to shuffle into the hospital together, her fist clutching and stretching-out my shirtsleeve. The process was absurd enough that her giggling didn’t draw much attention.

But the shock of florescent lighting nearly knocked the laughter from her throat. She followed a flash of silence with a lip-sputtering series of exhalations. I knew she was concerned about me because for the first time in recent memory, she was laughing alone.

Perhaps too shocked or overwhelmed with sensory overload, I couldn’t muster a sound. I was consumed by the citrusy chemical smell, the gleam from the recently mopped floor, the air that tasted as I imagined church wafers might taste: disgusting and divine, disinfected and contaminated at the same time. The whir of the revolving door blended in with the hush of the escalator that ascended and descended just beyond the front desk. I heard the squeak and click and clock of sneakers and shoes and clogs. Everything was either metallic or white, casting piercing, suspicious glares across every surface.

There was a white table beneath the slant of the escalator that read Information. An older woman in soft blue scrubs had her face inches from a computer screen. My sister pulled me toward the table and waited for the woman to lift her eyes, Ruby’s barely restrained snickers more effective at getting attention than an “Excuse me” would have been.

“How can I help you?” the woman asked in a tone that was simultaneously upbeat, exhausted, and annoyed.

“My brother,” Ruby managed before breaking into convulsions that might have given the impression we were on the verge of some practical joke. But my sister persisted. “He hit his head.” I saw her trying to swallow back the laughter. “And lost consciousness.” Then she turned toward me, and I could see the spasms consuming her face. “But he’s awake again now,” she barely uttered, the effort to restrain her laughter made it seem, under the circumstances, like she was overcome with fear and sadness, struggling to keep herself from crying.

The woman looked into my dazed, glassy eyes and stood with some urgency. “Do you need someone to help?” she asked, summoning an attendant from the other side of the hallway. With her head still turned away from the woman, my sister squeaked out, “Yes, please.”

When the large, olive-skinned man eased me into a wheel chair to usher me safely to whatever room they had for contusions of the head, my urge to laugh started to return. I was still lightheaded, feeling as if the energy had been sucked out of me by some cerebral vacuum, but the circumstances and the awkwardness of being wheeled around seemed almost, as my sister liked to say, “objectively funny.” Fortunately, the attendant was as serious and stone-faced as a soldier in the Queen’s Guard, his mind apparently on the immediate task of getting me safely to a hospital room and continuing his evening’s work.

When we got to the room, he said I could stay in the wheel chair until the nurse arrived, but if I wanted to sit on the bed, he could adjust the back and lift me onto the mattress. That’s when the force of my sister’s laughter triggered my own receptors and I was tearing up before I even made a sound. And the sound I made came out like a cackle from a drunk in a raunchy comedy show. To this man’s credit, he didn’t crack. Just nodded and said, “Leave you in the chair, then,” and left.

“I think…” my sister began, fighting back the forces of mirth, “I might want to marry that man.”

Although she was attempting to be funny, this man was consistent with a certain type for Ruby. Sure, she dated a few goofballs who eagerly laughed along with her, but these boys and men didn’t offer any balance. Too much like dating a stoned version of herself. She tended to lean toward humorless men. Not the serious and high-minded type who obsessed over the injustices in the world and sought to lecture anyone in earshot, but the stoic and dull type, apparently immune to her snickers and snorts, and grateful for her interest and affection—men most in their element when slumped in the center of a sagging couch. But these men didn’t offer much balance either. So her longest relationship was with me. Platonic and largely monogamous.

Our condition made it hard to hold down friendships, which is why we spent so much time together, but Ruby attracted interest. She was tall like our father and had mom’s soft face and stern nose. She and I had the same nose and the same brown hair and eyes, but Ruby could be beautiful when she wanted to be. Where Ruby looked slender and strong, I was mousey and anemic; when Ruby donned her dark framed glasses, she could pull off what mom used to call her “sexy severe” look; although I didn’t wear glasses, I still looked irrepressibly geeky. But neither of us had too many social aspirations or abilities.

If I was a type, it was the giggling virgin who struck nearly everyone as intolerably awkward and immature. After my parents died—five weeks before my high school graduation—people reached out. Mostly school administrators and members of the student council doing their benevolent duty. They encouraged me to come to the graduation ceremony. But I was barely in a condition to attend graduation before any profound personal tragedy. I certainly wasn’t going after. And even college wasn’t really in the cards. I was enrolled in the university where my dad had taught since before I was born. Following my sister’s footsteps. But it was easy to defer that first year. And the three years after that, especially since the school assured me that they would honor my education no matter when I decided to go. My sister managed to finish her college degree, but she did it as a day student. She was a socialite compared to me, and she barely left the house. Unless she had to escort her brother to the hospital for a cat’s ass contusion.

My sister and I waited in snickering silence for nearly an hour before a nurse came in to speak with us. I guess the perception of fitness that our giggling must have suggested lessened the urgency for treatment.

The nurse was a tall, slender man who wore no undershirt beneath his scrubs, revealing the hairy boniness of his chest. My sister turned away almost instantly, but I held my eyes on his, managing, at least for the moment, to maintain a straight face. He held up a clipboard and nodded.

“My name is Jeffrey,” he said. “I understand you hit your head and lost consciousness. Can you describe what happened?”

As well as I could, I described the circumstances, my sister chiming in to add details about my sorrowful rant of disappointments, as if that were relevant and would add some incentive to care for such a pathetic patient.

“Dr. Posner would like you to have a CT Scan. I believe she will stop in beforehand.”

My sister and I snort-snickered at the same time, causing Jeffrey to squint at both of us, but to his credit he didn’t respond, just left the room.

My sister looked at me. She was still holding back her laugh, but there was something almost embarrassed in her eyes. “Was it the rhyme?” she asked. “‘Scan-beforehand’ that made you laugh? Or the fact that the nurse is a man and the doctor is a woman?”

“The rhyme,” I shot back, defensive and disappointed that she had caught the exact things that had triggered the unfortunate response, compelling me to add, “There are more women doctors than men these days.”

My sister only nodded, willing to let me be the feminist or the liar or both.

The CT Scan was more of a process than it should have been, largely because they let my sister accompany me to radiology. Predictably, she couldn’t contain the urge to laugh—her startling, high-pitched chortle—always right before the image was taken, causing me to convulse and release my breath, preventing a clear image from being captured: in many ways, a metaphor for our entire lives. The woman responsible for positioning me and taking the scan was enormously patient.

“We sometimes have to sedate someone before an MRI but never had to do it for a CT Scan,” she said, not exactly thrilled by the novelty. And then looking directly at my sister whose face scrunched in a snigger of discomfort, “And never thought I’d consider sedating someone who’s not even the patient. Guess that means I’d better ask you to leave, ma’am. But we’ll take good care of your husband.”

Both of us belly-snorted at the same time, but it was my sister who managed to respond: “He’s my brother, ma’am. Not my…” and it was impossible but fortunately unnecessary for her to finish the response.

Although the urge to laugh remained, I was able to hold still long enough for a passable scan to be taken. The woman helped me down from the table and insisted that I return to the chair so she could wheel me back to the room. I was eager to exaggerate a description of the process to my sister, but when we got back, Ruby was not there. Being alone in the cold, sterile room was unnerving. When I heard Ruby’s voice, talking more steadily than usual, it was doubly unnerving. Not sure if my anxiety eased or spiked when I recognized the voice speaking in return. A friend of my parents. Dr. Fred we used to call him. But most in the hospital probably knew him as Dr. Levy.

Of all the people to be at the hospital, Dr. Fred Levy was at an uncertain extreme—either the best or worst person to see at this time. Few people in the world knew us as well as he did. Few people knew our parents as well, even though he was nearly two decades younger than they were. And few people were able to ease and nearly eradicate our urge for spontaneous laughter, but for complex and contrasting reasons: no one had ever excited my sister as much as he did, and no one seemed as excited by my sister as him. That affected both of us. Although I’ve dropped hints about Dr. Fred giving me the creeps, Ruby always put a stop to it, saying some version of the same thing: “With all the shitty things that have happened to us, I simply can’t trash the one man who’s kind.” Since I can’t argue without eliciting torrents of unproductive laughter, I have yet to offer a true rebuttal. But now his raspy, masculine-light voice was in the air. And wafting toward the room.

“Thomas,” he said as he entered, his carefully combed head holding an angle meant to project sympathy, empathy, and concern—a clichéd look that would normally make me laugh, but did quite the opposite now.

“Hello, Dr. Fred,” I said, before correcting myself, “Dr. Levy.”

“Dr. Fred is fine. Please. How are you feeling, Thomas?” he asked, lowering himself onto the cushioned stool so he was eye-level with me.

“Guess I’ve been better,” eliciting a slow-blinking smile and inhalation.

“Indeed, Thomas,” he followed, reminding me of his tendency to say my name with every sentence—another thing that made me uneasy.

“I know Dr. Posner ordered a CT Scan,” he sigh-spoke, sending a warm wave of stale coffee fumes into my face. “I’m sure those will be read soon. Until then, are you feeling nauseated or in any way disoriented, Thomas?”

Looking at Dr. Fred’s waxy cheeks was always disorienting for me, especially since he was about 40 years old but could pass for 20 were it not for gray-flecked sideburns. The fact that his question didn’t spark a fit of laughter was also disorienting. Fortunately, my sister returned to form with a sputtering snort that she covered with her hand when the doctor turned around, but her laughter had a grounding and contagious effect on me. As if she yanked the starter rope on a lawn mower, laughter just roared out. I closed my eyes and reanimated all that had been paralyzed, releasing my own rolling, boyish giggle without inhibition, letting the fit go on until Dr. Fred rose from his stool and assured me, “Thomas,” that he would be back.

My parents said the same thing the last time Ruby and I saw them. That they’d be back. They were leaving together for a weekend in Maine. Some Bed and Breakfast in Kennebunk.

“Some of the highways have 75 mph speed limits,” my dad had said.

“As if that’s the draw of Maine,” my mother replied. “Vacationland simply a veiled reference to New England’s version of the Autobahn.”

“The draw hasn’t even arrived yet,” my dad followed, bobbing his spidery eyebrows in the most nauseating sexual insinuation, eliciting a slap on the arm from my mother and an exaggerated retching noise from my sister.

“It’s the beaches and the crafts that I am excited for,” my mom assured us.

“I’m sure your mother will describe it all in flowery detail.”

“Yes I will,” she agreed, “but not for my column. Just for our family.”

“Might be hard to return home,” my dad smiled, picking up his and my mother’s bags.

“We’ll be back,” my mother said.

“Yes,” my dad confirmed, “We’ll be back.”

My sister and I knew they couldn’t stay away too long since they were both so work-obsessed. My dad was a psycholinguist. A professor with a joint appointment in linguistics and psychology, known in academic circles for his research on what he called “nonsense speak,” or the filler words, phrases, expressions, and conversations we use to adhere to social norms. Dr. Fred had taken one of dad’s classes as an undergraduate and likes to credit him for his interest in psychiatry, specifically in the insights and implications of language use. Now Dr. Fred teaches a class every year at the college and has an office in dad’s old building.

Although my dad was willing to talk about his work, he had little patience for conversations outside of a professional or structured setting. Our mom once said, “He’ll play the game with his colleagues or at the bank, but when he’s working he requires a certain solitude, and your father is always working. He likes to keep the gears gurgling.” For the longest time, I wasn’t sure what game my mom was talking about. All I knew was that he was always a little distracted and could never sit still. But I remember when part of it clicked for me. Soon after I heard him on the radio.

It was a live segment on a Saturday morning show. Dad was in his office and we were all in the kitchen. I can still hear his slow, patient voice misting out of our kitchen speakers, calming the airwaves as he rarely did when he was in the room, explaining to the host that a great percentage of speech was comprised of nonsense words and sentences and even entire conversations. “In fact,” I remember him saying, “not only is our speech filled with nonsense, but it’s an essential part of our speech. We are constantly making corrections into or out of nonsense. And if someone doesn’t adhere to the expectations, if someone breaks with those patterns, then they stand out. As unfair as it sounds, they are often considered freakish. This is why I am compelled to speak about this with you and your listeners.” What he didn’t share was that he had labeled my words as nonsense countless times and never hinted that it was in any way acceptable or expected. This is what was on my mind as they wrapped up the interview and the host asked if he was planning “a serious Saturday studying nonsense.” They shared some forced, friendly laughter before my dad replied, “You’re more likely to find me napping on the couch with a newspaper over my chest,” prompting another series of chuckles, some mutual expressions of gratitude, and an end to the interview. Minutes later, dad walked through the kitchen in his exercise clothes and shot out the door. That’s when I started to laugh. That was nonsense, I realized. My dad had perpetuated and played along as much as anyone.

Although my sister might disagree, I think the inability to stop myself from laughing began then for me. I kept imagining what it would be like if we didn’t play the nonsense game. If someone asked how we were doing, and we told them the truth. In detail. Like a pin in the balloon of hot air, we just deflated the nonsense and floated to the ground with the articulated weight of our anxieties and isolation. Who wouldn’t laugh at that?

Along with our reaction to discomfort, Ruby and I also laughed when things were funny, and no one made us more uncomfortable or feel more like laughing than my mother.

In a job she was made for—or was made for her—mom wrote the “Critics Corner” column for our local newspaper, covering mostly art, music, theater, and film, but also food and festivals and anything else she wanted to write about for the Sunday Arts & Ideas section. As our local paper’s only critic, she had full control over her weekly column and countless devoted readers. Although her byline only appeared once a week, her criticisms never took a day off, and her favorite subjects—to praise and to criticize—were her children.

For me, the more compliant and nervous child, her comments were mostly surface-level corrections about grammar or posture or etiquette, but for Ruby, they were more emasculating and ambiguous, often brought on by Ruby herself. Not only more whimsical, but Ruby was prone to make provocative statements when things got dull around the dinner table: “I think oral should be legal at 13” and “Does Thomas know how much you drank when he was in utero?” were two of the more indelible. She was trying to get a rise out of mom and testing to see if dad was even listening, but they were most shocking to me. Ruby always kept a straight face, and in real time, I was blind to the tell. Mom’s replies always came after I had calmed down and my sister returned to giggling at my gullibility. “Ruby dear,” mom always began, “If you continue to dig your polished nails in the dirt, then you shan’t be surprised when the excrement starts to rise” or “Ruby dear, if you always tiptoe away from the advancing tide, you’ll never know when the sea lily starts to glow—there are times when you must be willing to dive in.” My sister mostly laughed, but I suspect they bothered and baffled her as much as they did me.

But mom was not some cryptic or clichéd detractor. She was funny. And no one made us laugh like she did—sometimes on purpose and other times by the manic weight of her expressions and convictions.

“You know what’s behind American gluttony?” she asked once. “Soup! That’s what! The minute they turned a meal into an appetizer, Americans didn’t know when to quit. But I tell you, soup is a meal. The Vietnamese understand this, but Americans can’t wrap their sentient stomachs around it and just eat and eat and eat and eat until they can’t amble without overturning. And they don’t just ingurgitate soup and then cast about for the main course, they have to plunk croutons and crumbled cheese into the broth and dip their herb crackers and bread sticks in the bowl and jockey back and forth between the plated sides before they put their spoons down and say ‘Now what’s for dinner?’ Doesn’t take much to see where the gluttony comes from. And to be clear, I don’t find any of this funny. The only reason the two of you are not grossly obese, is because your father and I know how to control the soup!”

I don’t know whether my parents would be impressed or disappointed with the directions we’ve taken, but my sister and I have managed to find some passable employment and haven’t simply curled into the blanket of their insurance policy. I was able to convert a summer job into something more lasting. Almost careerish. In my case, as a transcriptionist for a company that works with corporate clients. Not the most exciting job, but that’s exactly why I’ve been able to last as long as I have. Along with straight transcriptions, we also do corrections of automated scripts, tracking the computer-generated document while listening to the recording. General transcriptionists make mistakes, but the automated programs get more wrong than right. And I can admit to a certain satisfaction at the skill I’ve developed over the years, deciphering dull exchanges without needing to concentrate too much or fight the urge to laugh. When I’ve submitted my original or corrected transcript and minutes later can barely remember what the meeting or training or seminar was about, I truly feel like I’ve controlled the soup.

I also manage to get outside and keep my “gears gurgling.” Specifically, I search for anecdotes to entertain my sister. Something to exaggerate that might make her laugh—something she could claim to be “objectively funny.”

When I leave the house, I usually walk in the opposite direction of the college toward a local park where I can count on seeing someone or something strange: a toddler catching her dog’s poop in her bare hands (while mother holds the leash and speaks with another parent), a father on the phone tumbling over a teeter totter, teenagers smoking and drinking and having sex. And I make sure to describe the setting: the smell of the air, the sway of the trees, the orchestral sound of the playground, the granular feel of the benches, the sweet taste of the fog. Ruby has urged me to write the stories down, but the thrill for me is seeing my sister’s reaction. Watching her get quiet and lean in. Hearing her gasp or shriek or laugh like our mother used to make us laugh.

Ruby also has her stories. Many are comical failures. Her forays into the classroom as a doomed teacher’s assistant, her occasional dates with friends-of-acquaintances or people she met online. And more recently, since she joined the staff at our local library, she talks about her colleagues who are either comically dull—the same lunches and clothes and bathroom breaks and anecdotes about television characters—or live incredible lives outside of work: librarian by day and cardsharp or clog dancer or gothic strip poet by night. Ruby admitted that she exaggerates or imagines some of the extracurriculars, but the stories are still fun to hear and the routine provides some semblance of normalcy.

When we returned from the hospital, things weren’t normal for long. Sure, we laughed at the spectacle of the incident, relived my teeter-plunge-head-gouge-and-drop; split our sides over the cat’s ass contusion, and settled into a different, sputtering laugh when the conversation turned to our encounter with Dr. Fred. In some ways, that laugh of discomfort was the most familiar, the closest to normal, but it was also the one that made me most unsettled, and the one that became an avenue out of the house for Ruby.

In was the Saturday after my hospital visit when Ruby performed an awkwardly self-conscious walk to the front door. She paused beside the coat rack, her long fingers wrapped around the gumwood railing, clearly aware that my eyes were on her. She lifted her black wool coat and as casually as possible, without looking my way, said she was “going out,” pausing to let me process the obvious aberration: not just leaving for milk, which would have itself been an unlikely scenario since we had been having groceries delivered for years, but going out, suggesting an indeterminate end to the evening with unknown interactions and experiences and outcomes. Going out. So I raised the most obvious point in the most obvious way.

“Going out?” I nearly shouted.

“Going out,” she repeated, as she fastened the large black buttons on her coat, no irony or intentional provocation that I could detect.

“What are you like a regular socialite now?” I asked, taking this development as more of an affront than was warranted. I’ve never handled surprises very well. “Just on your evening tootle out to the parties and clubs and parlors or wherever you socialites go?”

“Did you just say ‘tootle’?” she asked with a smile but not a laugh. “That’s such a mom word.”

I sighed, aware of the mom-words that exited my mouth on occasion, but my mind was still fixed on the inexplicability of the moment. When the normal was isolation and sibling introversion, my sister couldn’t just drop the 411 that she’s circling into the social sphere. The few weekend outings that had taken place in the past had all been talked through and agonized over and given up on and picked back up again and committed to and regretted and occasionally canceled and just as occasionally reignited before an anxious and agitated departure. Spontaneity wasn’t something we did. Or only in visceral and veiled expressions of mirth.

“Where are you going? With who?”

“I’m just walking to campus,” she said. “Meeting Dr. Fred.”