Driving Away

Paul sat in his car in a patch of darkness between streetlamps, across the street from the McMansion. When he saw Ethan emerge from the bushes lining the front yard, his grip on the steering wheel tightened reflexively. Ethan looked both ways cautiously, crossed the street towards him, and got in the car on the passenger’s side.

Ethan’s face was grim. He didn’t have to say a word. Paul’s shoulders sagged.

Ethan said, “I’m sorry, buddy.” Then: “You all right?”

It took a long moment for Paul to reply. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

Ethan tried to make out Paul’s expression in the dark. “You okay to drive?”

“Yeah.” Paul started the car and drove off slowly, only turning the headlights on after he had driven past several houses. But they had not even gone three blocks when he pulled over, placed his head gently on the airbag casing, and started shaking. “No, I’m not. Maybe you should drive after all.”

"All right." Ethan got out and went around to the driver’s side. Paul sidled over blindly to the passenger’s seat, snagging his thigh on the gear shift and not even feeling it. Ethan got in and took over the wheel. Paul spent the 20-minute drive home hunched over and trembling.

Ethan parked in front of Paul’s apartment building and turned the engine off. He sat back tight-lipped, looking sideways at Paul.

“You warned me, didn’t you? Five years ago,” Paul said quietly, bitterly. “You said it was a mistake. You said I would never measure up to her.”

Ethan raised his eyebrows. “I’ll cop to the first. Never to the second. That’s kind of your formulation, not mine. What I said was I thought she was the kind of woman who would always be strongly drawn to authority figures.”

“Alpha males. Which is what her boss is. Which I’ll never be.”

Ethan snorted. “Alpha, beta, soup,” he said. “Fuck that. You’re a good man. That’s what counts, not that baboon social hierarchy shit.”

Paul shut his eyes tightly, rubbed his temples, and said, almost meditatively, “I was so pissed off at you.”

Ethan replied wryly, “I know. You barely spoke to me for two years.” He continued, in a measured tone, “What I think – what I always thought – was that she didn’t measure up to you. She was always…” – treading even more carefully now – “…She keeps looking for Daddy, you know? And you, my friend, will never be that. Except to the kids you’ll have someday.”

Paul shook his head. He muttered, in a tone dead with resignation, “Not worthy…”

Ethan shook his head in turn. “You were always so sure of that…”

They fell into a long silence.

Finally, Ethan sighed and said, “Paul, what do you want to do?”

The muscles along Paul’s jaw started working. He whispered harshly, “Knock her fucking teeth in.” Then he took a deep, halting breath. Then another. Then another. He scrubbed his eyes of tears with the heel of his hand, straightened up, and blinked his eyes open. “Which is why I probably shouldn’t be here when she comes home.” He turned to Ethan. “Would it be okay if I crashed at your place tonight? You think Sonny would mind?”

“Never. You can stay with us as long as you like.” Ethan turned on the ignition, glanced at his friend as he put the car into gear. “Like I said,” he said, smiling softly, “a good man.” He steered the car into the street.

(April 2012)

Wild Heart

You were a spindly child of eight or nine the night you first came into my woods. You had stolen away from your sleeping hamlet to see for yourself if the stories of my existence were true. I spied you through gaps between the gnarly, epiphytic roots of a balete tree from the grove where I was resting as you walked up the path, holding before you in one hand and cupping with the other a pearl of light: a small, brave glow in the deep gloom of the forest.

As you came closer, I moved behind another tree, taking no care to avoid rustling the leaves on the ground. I meant to signal my presence, to presage the terror I was about to loose upon you. There was no question of mating with you, since you were too young to have borne my child, so what remained was to stalk you, harry you from behind the trees and the branches above, taunt and hunt you until your heart pounded in your head from the running and the fear and you were so turned around and lost you could not find your way back. And yes, I meant to chase you down in the end and trample you into the earth, since you seemed so small and helpless.

But you heard me stirring in the grove and, instead of fleeing, stood still and peered in my direction, holding out your tiny flame and trying to make me out in the black, tangled mass of tree trunks and hanging vines. You could not see me. I with my nocturnal eyes was caught by yours: dark and shining, curious and questing. I snorted loudly and pawed the ground to see if that would change your expression. You stepped forward, cocking your head from side to side, still trying to catch a glimpse of me. I forewent all thought of hunting you then and stepped out from behind the tree, to see if your seeming courage was true. I stretched to my full height and walked towards you until I stood towering over you, the hot breath from my nostrils falling upon you like a haze.

You looked up at me in wild-eyed wonder. You must have been afraid then, for you dropped your candle and I could hear your heart pulsing madly in your bird-like body. You knew that in my hands and my hooves was your death, the likely price you would have to pay for your curiosity. Yet you stood your ground and did not flinch. And I knew then that here was a creature who was even fiercer than I.

I bowed, turned around, and stooped to the ground. After a moment’s confusion, you understood and clambered upon my back. I galloped deep into the forest and up the tree branches, the wind and the leaves whipping our faces as I leaped from limb to limb under the stars. My booming neighs and your joyous screams carried over glen and glade, terrifying what forest creatures were about. We ran till near daybreak, when I brought you to the outskirts of your village, so you could slip back home and catch a little sleep before the light crept into the sky.

You came to me many, many nights afterwards, whenever you could escape your daylight world – and it was never often enough for me. You grew taller and sturdier as the years went by, though of course you remained minuscule compared to me, and no burden at all as I bore you on our midnight runs. Indeed, at times it felt as if you were the one carrying me on those wild flights, the beating of your heart against my back the hoofbeats that drummed our passage.

Sometimes when we stopped to drink from a pool of water or rest on a mossy crook between branches, you would whisper to me of your desire to go even farther than our gallops could take you; to mount steeds faster than me that would sweep you away from your village, past the towns in the plain, through the heavens and over the waters that ringed our island, to distant lands you longed to see. Perhaps you thought since I could not speak your tongue I did not understand your words, and therefore felt free to entrust me with your dreams. But I did understand. And I knew from the start you were not a creature to be confined to one place, not even the vast forest though which we bounded. Who knew better than I how untamable you were? Still, it pained me to hear your schemes of going beyond where I could take or follow you.

When you turned twelve, I plucked the thickest spine from my bristly mane and gave it to you. I knew your people believed that such an object was an anting-anting, a talisman that binds the will of a creature like me into servitude – which was ridiculous, of course. Who among your people could have come upon one of us unawares, or leapt upon our backs to take a spine against our will? And were this even possible, why should obtaining it have rendered us helpless and witless? It’s just hair. But it was right that I should give it to you – not as some magical device with which to tether me to you, but as a token that I already was. You fastened it to a loop of twine that you wore around your neck, and you swore you would keep it with you, always.

As you grew into a woman, your visits became fewer and fewer, until one night, you held me tight about my neck before dismounting, then walked away without a word or backward look.

Since then the world has changed beyond recognition. The towns have spread across the plain like mold on a fallen bole, until your little hamlet was overrun and my forest encroached upon. Countless trees have been felled and swaths of woodland cleared and overlaid with farms and roads and the dwellings of men. Something wicked this way comes, from all sides. Your people are still unable to catch more than a glimpse of me – I have not lost my swiftness and I can still vanish into the trees before they can come near – yet more and more I am hemmed in. Now I am the one who is harried, I am the one whose way is lost. It has been many, many years now since you left, and I can barely keep alive the spark that I cup in my heart: the hope that you will yet return before your world closes itself on me like a fist.

Oh, I know you will not be coming back. Why should you, who are free to roam the endless earth? I would not, if I had the same chance as you to fly away. But if it is foolishness to long for your return, then allow me to hold on to this much at least: I hope you have kept the gift I gave you; I hope it reminds you of me sometimes; I hope it continues to see you safe.

(April 2012)

tikbalang by cownose

Stepping Through

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally decided to walk through the door. She had read two chapters too many, two more than she had allowed herself when she started reading, and now she was pressed for time. Still she lingered, putting on her trench coat slowly, deliberately, and patting her coat pockets to make sure her keys and purse and cell phone were in them. Having run out of contrivances for delay, she turned the knob and pulled the door open. Framed by the door were a rectangular patch of the powder blue wall across from her apartment in the hallway, the unlit sconce light on the wall, a slice of her neighbor’s door. Ordinarily invisible from long familiarity, they were vivid today, alive – and they seemed to implore her to stay on her side of the threshold, where it was safe.

She closed her eyes and tried to soften them, to ease their quivering. She took a deep breath. And from the swirl in her mind a calm thought threw itself clear. It said: If you go through this door, your life will change. Not a warning; not an objection; a simple statement of fact.

She opened her eyes and contemplated the thought for a long, still moment. The wall, the sconce, the slice of door held their peace, waiting. So be it, her mind said quietly, and she stepped through.

***

She was four minutes late to the coffee shop, but he was even later, so she was able to catch her breath from having run three blocks from the train station while she waited in line to order. She got an herbal tea and took it to a table by the window. She was just settling into her chair when Jack walked in through the door, scanned the room, spotted her, and flashed a grin. She stood up to receive his kiss on her cheek, then sat back down as he pulled out his chair and sat down himself.

“I hope you weren’t waiting long,” he said. “Client kept me on the phone.”

“Not at all. Do you want to get a coffee first?” she said. She marveled that her voice did not crack.

He shook his head. “I’m amply caffeinated.” He smiled again. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to thank you again for taking a look at my McConnell presentation. I appreciated your comments.”

“Oh, sure. I was glad to do it.”

He leaned back and placed both hands on the table. “So. What’s up? You said you needed to talk to me about something.”

Her heart started thudding against her chest. Here it was.

“Jack, I’m…” A final fearful pause. Then, through the door: “Jack, I’m in love with you.”

His eyes, which had been looking at her with curiosity and anticipation, widened. His face changed.

(March 2012)

Canciónes de Amor

Though you held me long and tight,

You never let me stay the night.

Now you’re gone, and missing you is doing me no good.

Still, I think about you more than I should.

Miguel strummed the song’s sad final notes. His hand floated away slowly from the guitar strings. He looked up to see his friends smiling at him warmly, indulgently. He said, eyebrow cocked, “Gonna be a big hit.”

Everyone laughed. Anise held his hand and said, “It’s not half bad, sweetie. The melody’s beautiful, anyway. Keep at it.”

Katie said, “Keep playing, won’t you, Miguel? Another slow one?” She and Evan had been slow dancing just inside the circle of light cast by the bonfire. Her head still rested on Evan’s chest.

Miguel smiled. Anise let his hand go and he began plucking a delicate canción de amor. Indifferent he may have been as a lyricist, his fingers were magic on the guitar, a bequeathment from his Cuban uncles. The melancholy strain rose into the night, rendering them all momentarily still.

Katie held Evan even more tightly around the waist. They resumed shuffling from side to side.

They were eight friends on the beach on the last night of their camping trip, staying close to the fire to keep away the briny chill from the ocean.

Matt took a swig from his bottle, stood up, and extended his hand to Anise. “May I?”

She looked up at him with suspicion. “You’re not going to try anything funny, are you?”

Matt said, thickening his Southern drawl, “No, ma’am. You learned me my lesson good and proper last time.” He took her hand, got her to her feet, and drew her to him – but not too close. He led her in a stiff, exaggerated box step: forward, to the right, backward, to the left. She laughed and softened in his arms.

Katie said, “I am so tired, I could sleep for days. My thighs really ache.”

Hoots and laughter erupted from the group. Gina called out from where she lay on Maggie’s lap, “That’s what happens when you two keep ducking in the bushes.”

Evan blushed. Katie wrinkled her nose at her mockers. “From the hike, you evil people.”

“All right,” Matt said, releasing Anise and making a small bow to her. He took the guitar from Miguel. “Mike, ol’ buddy, ain’t no one can make a guitar weep like you, but it’s time to SHAKE IT UP. With a little song called ‘One Bourbon, One Scotch, One BEER.’”

Matt slapped the strings, then launched into the hard-driving rhythm of the song’s intro. Everyone began whooping and laughing. Anise pulled Gina up from Maggie. Miguel got up and raised his eyebrows to Maggie, who smiled and shook her head. He nodded and joined the dancers kicking up the sand.

Maggie looked at Sam, the only other person still sitting. She went to him, wine cooler in hand. “I don’t suppose you want to dance, Sammy?”

Sam smiled. “No.”

She sat beside him. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah.” He paused. “It was a really good day.”

She smiled. “Yeah, it was. A wonderful weekend.”

He watched the others swaying and jumping to Matt’s off-key croaking. He felt such love for them all at that moment that his heart edged towards breaking.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” she asked.

He glanced at her, wincing, embarrassed. He nodded at the others; she followed his gaze. He said, “Look at them dancing. Isn’t it a shame we have to die?”

She peered at his face glowing in the firelight. She took his hand. “Yeah. It is.”

(March 2012)

Round 8

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and, finally, decided to walk through the door. The book had other notions, though, and transferred its matrix to the door. The door glowed just as she came to it, and the page she had been reading appeared on its surface.

“You said you’d read two chapters today,” the book reminded her.

She sighed.

“Hmmm,” he thought to himself, leaning back on his chair. “Maybe. Sci-Fi doesn’t seem to go over well at Three-Minute Fiction, though. And once you begin with a twist like that, you’re almost left with having to come up with even bigger twists. Nope, too gimmicky.” He started over.

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. She needed some air. The forest of flower arrangements, the earnest sympathies offered to the family, and, most of all, the loving stories of Hal that people had written in the memory book were just too much. She only knew him a short time long ago, but she was certain he couldn’t have changed enough to deserve all these signs of sorrow and post-mortem affection.

“Aack! Death again? I think we played that out in Round 7.” He highlighted the paragraph and deleted it. He drummed on his armrest with four fingers as he stared at the screen. After an interminable pause, he started tapping on the keyboard.

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and – finally – decided to walk through the door. She was loath to leave. The chill, clean, rain-freshened breeze washing through the high, open awning windows mingled with the musk from the old books, making the air in the cavernous building the sweetest to breathe. The cool scent reached behind her thoughts to educe – not the memories – but the sense of libraries past where she had spent a good portion of her contented life. She had always felt, turning Borges’s phrase around, that a library was very like heaven…

He frowned as he re-read the words. “A little too static. I might be able to paint a pretty little portrait of a blissed-out literary spinster nerd, but a picture isn’t a story.” He cleared the screen again.

Sighing, he turned to look around the room, staring at various objects in turn, willing them to offer, talisman-like, a story full-blown and complete. But they were all silent and told no tales.

He turned back to his laptop, getting more and more frustrated.

“The basic problem is that the final phrase in that mandatory first line is halting. The first two actions are commonplace, but firm. Then, after a beat and a build up, all she does is decide to walk through the door? She couldn’t just do it? It slows the rhythm down right there. Who is this hesitant, indecisive bitch anyway?” The more he thought about it, the more exasperated he became. His anger grew and turned from the amorphous fictional character to the pitiless judge who had issued this round’s impossible challenge, then to the folks at All Things Considered who just had to come up with this stupid, addictive time suck of a contest in the first place.

His irascibility was a ruse, of course; a blind for the deep-hidden fear that he was a poser, a fake, and no writer at all.

He got up. “The hell with it. I’ve gotta get out of here. Anyway, I’ve still got ten days to the deadline.”

He closed his Notebook (it was already on the table), and walked through the door.

(March 2012)

Night Voices

This one I like.

The voice in his head was expected, but not the words.

Ben opened his eyes and there was Alison sitting in the dark on the comfort chair by his bed, glowing softly from within, hands resting on her lap. He gave her a lopsided smile, eyebrows questioning.

I’m shocked, he said in his mind. That’s the first time you’ve liked someone I’m dating.

Alison’s eyes flicked over the woman asleep beside him cradled in his arm, then looked down at the floor. Well, more than dating. She raised her face to him. She’s nice. I think she has a good heart.

He glanced down at Jane, gently extracted his arm from under her head. She shifted, rolled away from him onto her side, took a deep breath and released it, and became still again, breathing slowly and softly. He sat up gingerly and propped himself against the headboard.

He sighed. Why do you only show up after I’ve slept with someone?

Alison shrugged. Why do you only see me after you’ve slept with someone? It feels to me like I’m watching you all the time. But you only seem to see me… you know, after.

Their eyes locked, each trying to fathom in the other’s irises the answer to the riddle, the deep mystery. After a minute, they broke their gaze and leaned back.

So, he thought, Sasha you thought too calculating, Michelle too cowardly, Deirdre insecure and self-destructive – and what was it you said about Kathleen?

She fidgeted. A batshit loony.

You’ve had choice words for all of them. But Jane meets with your approval?

She turned somber. She’s smart, she’s forthright, she’s quirky. After a moment’s reflection: When you were at dinner tonight and the waiter brought you the appetizer dish with three scallops, she cut one of them in two and placed one and a half in your plate and took one and a half for herself, so you both had equal portions.

He tilted his head back and laughed silently. That’s it? You think she’s great because she’s fastidiously fair?

It’s important. It’s the little things that count. You’re a good man. You should be with a thoughtful woman.

His smile faded. I should be with you. Then, despairing: Where are you, sweetheart?

Nowhere. I’m dead. Except now and then I find myself looking over you. She gave an exaggerated sigh. And then I catch you cheating on me with one of your slutty tramps. But there was a twinkle of mischief in her sidelong glance.

He laughed inwardly again. So much for liking her.

She leaned forward, suddenly dead serious, with an unfinished motion as if she meant to reach out and take his hands, only to replace her hands on her knees. I do. I think you should take a chance with her. I think you should give her a chance.

He looked at her in anguish, then peered at Jane. But what if that means you never show up again – I never see you again? he thought, turning back to Alison. But the chair was empty.

His faced crumpled into a sad grimace. She always disappeared whenever he took that step over the threshold towards what he feared.

He lay back down. Jane, sensing the bed shift, roused and turned over to him and rested her cheek against his bicep. He wrapped his arm around her and she sank back into deep sleep.

When she woke up in the morning, she glanced at him once as she got up. Sleep-deprived, he watched her with heavy-lidded eyes as she picked up her clothes from the floor, put on her underwear, and went into the bathroom carrying her dress. He heard the water running for several minutes, then silence. She came out of the bathroom cleaned up and dressed, the tattoo portrait of Guanyin covering her entire back veiled once again. She searched in the folds of the quilt blanket and dug out her silver hoop earrings. Her face was pensive as she put them on. He thought he saw a tiny squint, a hint of trepidation in her crow’s feet.

He got up and sat on the side of the bed and stared at the comfort chair. Jane hovered near him, uncertain, then moved closer. He thought for a moment she would sit in the chair; if she had, he would have broken it clean off and never seen her again. But she sat beside him instead.

“So…” she began. He turned to her, saw clearly now that she was afraid. She reached out timorously and rested her hand on his. Her hand was soft and warm. “Breakfast?” she said, trying to make her tone light. “You said the deli down the street has bagels to die for.” She mastered her nerves and looked at him directly. “Or did you already have plans for the morning?”

Gazing at her, he recalled how he had told her last night over dinner that closing his father’s casket seven months ago had felt like he was lowering the lid on his 10-year-old self. She had looked at him steadily with those green-hazel eyes and listened quietly without saying a word.

He deliberately refrained from glancing at the chair. He smiled, leaned over, kissed her quickly, then stood up.

“It’s not the bagels, it’s the garlic cream cheese. Half a minute while I shower.”

(January 2012)