What paths should I take? I hear laughter ahead of me. It makes me sad to think I am the source of that laughter.
I follow the yellow brick road. My steps are labour at my age. Under a desolate sky I think I will never get to my destination.
I feel listless on the new path. I blink when I see a light coming toward at me in record speed. I will sleep like sheep under moonlight.
THE UNFORTUNATE ONES
Suffering for some is how much more wealth they cannot accumulate. Others are lucky to have one decent meal a day procured from a trash bin.
Hope for some is being able to buy a bigger mansion, a larger yacht. Others hope for a tent that keeps out the rain or rats rummaging for scraps.
Here in this world everything is for sale. The unfortunate ones pay with their lives. There is blood in the streets from which warmongers collect the blood money.
Dead and buried in the debris from bombing attacks lie the unfortunate ones. Trampled under the foot of hatred, people are crushed along with their flag.
The tears of oblivion fall from the eyes of the unfortunate ones cold and wet. The purveyors of death will get theirs. Their hope for immortality is just that.
THE BIG BABY CRIED
(After Noor E. Zahra)
The big baby cried and the earth began to shake. Mountains crumbled. Dead bodies multiplied with each cry.
The big baby cried and every tree tumbled down. The sun and moon fell into the ocean to their extinction.
The big baby cried and its tears became rivers and floods. The grass was drowned. The stars glittered in the ocean waves.
The big baby cried and every heart began to break in two. The baby’s tears flooded the earth, which could not take all the weight.
The big baby cried and the sky began to fall. There was nothing that could make the crying stop as darkness fell all over the earth.
The big baby cried its tears into the void filled with sorrow and pain one might surmise. These alligator tears were just a tantrum that brought the rain of all rains to earth.
The big baby cried and the earth shed all its blood. The big baby howled and not even the big bad wolf came.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, now lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His poetry book, Peering into the Sun, was published by Poet’s Democracy.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Before stepping out of teens, Adarsh, my elder brother, also my father’s favourite son, stepped out of the ancestral house to live in a big city, to pursue higher education and fulfil his dreams camouflaged as the obligations of a responsible child. Hopes were pinned on him, on his powerhouse talent that would make the family gleam with pride one day. Whenever I heard my father praise him to the skies, I felt he was exaggerating like an astrologer.
Adarsh was not the kind of worthy son my father dreamt of. I remembered his last words before leaving for Bangalore to study engineering: Take care of the family. The way Adarsh said those precise words was conclusive. He would never come back to reside in the small town and shoulder his responsibilities.
To quote him verbatim would hurt my father deeply, to keep the truth estranged from him would be another kind of excess. I was expecting divine intervention to raise the curtain of his reality – to expose the opportunist lurking in Adarsh. A disappointment or a disagreement would be the ideal trigger to make my doting father examine the other side of his personality.
Fifteen years passed. His mask remained in place. I did not muster the strength to convey those exact words to my father who would never associate such thoughts with Adarsh. How could he go wrong in the assessment of his own child? Is human nature so misleading?
For two years, Adarsh had avoided coming home, citing professional compulsions. But my father felt our house lacked five-star amenities to suit Adarsh’s lifestyle.
I was considered a privileged son who enjoyed a life of comfort at home while the talented son struggled hard in the big, bad world outside. It was the duty of a parent to set the balance right, distribute love and affection equally between the legal heirs, not just the assets. Adarsh was perceived as the deprived child whereas I was the home-based pleasure-seeker exploiting the old man and his pension to meet my survival needs.
Using his provident fund proceeds, without consulting the family, the remorseful father built another floor and furnished one master bedroom with an attached washroom for his favourite son who came to meet him like an honourable dignitary for a couple of hours, for bear-hugs and to exchange pleasantries. And then returned to spend the night in a luxury hotel suite, around two hundred kms away, where his blonde wife had checked-in. Migratory birds stayed longer than he did and that was precisely what I queried my father about – he never controlled his budget to appease his older son. I questioned him about the urgent need to spend a fortune on the new construction when his health bills were expected to rise.
He justified it as a modest upgradation he could offer to the son who made him so proud. “If the entire town respects me today, it is because of your brother, not you,” he hollered, without thinking this could hurt me and strain the muscles of his ageing heart. Sometimes, parents reveal that their love for all children is far from equal. They are the prime architects of partiality in human relationships within the family.
I realised how demeaning it was to live in the house owned by him. I was aware of my own incompetence to build a similar house or pay my monthly bills. The roof provided by my father sheltered me along with my weaknesses and failures. Whenever I tried to move out — place myself under the open sky for a while — I was reminded of my actual status in life. As a result, I never challenged parental authority. Every insult that had come my way, I swallowed like mucus trapped in the throat.
Seeing him suffer emotionally because of Adarsh pained me though nobody expected me to be sensitive in this regard. If I revealed the other side of my brother, I was reminded of my own negligible contribution. I would be accused of trying to drive a wedge between the successful son and his loving father. The reality that he was also my father somehow faded. I was presented more like a dependent step-brother cribbing for his help all the time.
*
One day, I decided to disclose everything, oblivious of the outcome. The endless comparisons and insults lent toxicity to my anger. Surprisingly, my father listened to me quietly, without interrupting, immersed in finding good reasons to suspect and match those with his own observations. After several years of living abroad, the image of Adarsh seemed to develop cracks. It was not a development that made me happy though it was necessary at this stage for my own sanity.
Adarsh was expected like a good son to be around his father when he suffered his first heart attack. But he did not rush back home during the emergency. He said he did not get leave and he could not afford to quit. The recycled excuses did not work this time. I was the one by the bedside, arranging medical care, though the bills were later cleared by liquidating his fixed deposits.
Not finding the ideal son beside him was the reason for his heartbreak. The presence of an under-rated son round the clock was a matter of consolation for the father who had always belittled me. During the period of recovery, he reflected a lot, staring at the false ceiling mirroring his false pride. His sombre voice did not echo love and longing for the son who had deserted him. He came back from the hospital with two stents and a balanced perspective.
The special room built for my brother was always kept locked. Surprisingly, he offered me the keys and asked me to occupy the room. It was not just another accommodation. It was a sacred space in his heart reserved for Adarsh. That space was now being offered to me as he realised the ‘successful’ son would never get the leave to reach in time to light his funeral pyre. Whereas, this unregistered nominee carrying his DNA and residing for free on his premises would perform the last rites. He had reached this conclusion after introspecting and revising his expectations from high to low.
He could have had this realisation earlier but he was not able to see the other side without an emotional jolt. I never heard him criticise Adarsh for his shortcomings, for abandoning him in the hour of need. However, the frequent international phone calls and memory recalls turned rare now. He became almost non-existent for him — out of sight, out of mind.
Whenever I tried to mention Adarsh and his family, he changed the topic very quickly, faster than a chameleon changes colour. He seemed to have lost interest in what was going on in his life and career abroad. Or he did not wish to discuss him.
*
The day he suggested I should focus on my career and start some business was filled with surprise. He even offered financial assistance. Earlier, he vehemently opposed the idea of business since we belonged to a traditional family of service holders. Now he changed his outlook and made it global, without leaving the shore. Somewhere within he realised that promising careers are not always made abroad or by working for conglomerates alone.
I was well beyond the age to secure a decent job so I chose to become the first member in my family to take the entrepreneurial plunge. I was known as the one who always delivered losses. Yet now, he was not worried about losing his financial investment. He was rather keen to balance himself once again, by trying to favour me, to make amends for ignoring my future since I seemed to lack sparkle in my childhood years. In hindsight, he saw his concentration on Adarsh as a kind of injustice to me. Remorse overwhelmed him. I realised the best way for me to reduce his heaviness was to accept his offer. His kindness was a kind of balm for my bereaved heart.
*
On a modest scale, I set up the handicraft export business with his blessings. He broke the auspicious coconut and cut the ribbon at my new office. It took a couple of years for the business to register growth and enable me to repay his loan. My plans to expand and diversify the business – to establish units in the neighbouring states – were on the anvil. The fuel of ambition was clocking good mileage, taking my business in new directions at great speed.
My father was happy I was doing well for myself. The news reached him through his contact channels that I was invited to attend business summits, to deliver lectures, to receive awards and accolades. His retired friends glorified my initiatives of empowering the rural folks and ‘giving back’ to society. Sometimes he walked into the office and checked out the shelf space reserved for trophies and framed certificates of excellence and merit. He stood in front of the mantlepieces and smiled. He had heard stories about successful Adarsh. Here he was witnessing the meteoric success of his younger son.
I told him that Adarsh confirmed his visit to India that Diwali. I repeated it louder as he was watering the balcony plants. He showed no eagerness or excitement unlike in the past. I returned the keys of my brother’s fully furnished room he had offered me for personal use. I had not shifted in that space yet so I thought Adarsh could utilise it during his stay.
I was glad he was finally home-bound after a gap of two years – the first trip after the heart attack episode. For a change, he came alone, leaving his family behind. He looked unhappy though he did not share anything with me during the drive from the airport to the outskirts of the city. Only after he saw pictures and the website of my profitable business venture on the phone, he overcame the hesitation to open up his heart and share his current situation.
“I am ruined, bro, never saw this was coming,” Adarsh said, and wiped off the tears about to trickle down his cheeks. Surely there was some serious problem he was facing as I had never seen him emotionally fragile. I did not appear eager to dig up the details as he would gradually reveal the bruises. It appeared that a lot of stress and distress had piled up in his life during the last two years, about which we knew nothing. “I am preparing for divorce. My in-laws cheated me, siphoned off investments and she helped them in the loot,” Adarsh dropped the bombshell after regaining his composure. “Sometimes I feel she married me for wealth. Nothing else.”
The financial trouble he was coping with should not reach father, I thought, as he would be affected that his talented son was facing the consequences of betrayal in love and marriage. All I wanted to know from him was how he could be helped out. He disclosed he was planning for an out-of-court settlement first, then to return to India and build his future here.
“Father will be delighted to hear that. Great decision, bhai[1],” I cheered him for revising the plans and shuffling his priorities though it was late to rebuild from a scratch. “Just make sure the divorce thing is kept under wraps for some more time, for the sake of his health. No tension or anxiety.”
*
By the time we reached our housing colony, he opened up further. He did not want our father to know anything as the news of his suffering would take a toll on his health. Therefore, he wanted me to lend him financial support. Besides, he did not think he deserved to ask for anything from father as he had let him down with his choices and decisions. He pronounced himself guilty for he had not been a good son. Earlier, I was the one who went through such poor self-assessment. Finally, there was something that made us equal as brothers.
I parked the car in the outskirts near the primary school we attended together to revive good memories of childhood. We sat near the small pond and reflected on our childhood filled with days of joy and carefree lives. Dropping a pebble and watching the ripples in the water, thinking of a permanent solution to his problem. I gave it a serious thought and offered him equal partnership in my new business though it was not his domain of expertise. With the emerging integration of AI for business profitability, I thought his technological insights would help the business grow here and overseas. Seeing him snowed under genuine regret, I chose to forget the bitter past and assured him of all possible help as a blood brother, just like my father had surprised me with his assistance to rebuild my aimless, broken life. I felt then my decision was right.
*
Encouraged by my unconditional support, Adarsh snapped all ties with his in-laws and expedited the process of buying freedom by separating from his wife. The greatest joy for any father would be to see both the sons engaged in the same business. The unification and collaboration of the brothers through an act of destiny was the best gift in his old age.
The glowing expression of joy on hearing from Adarsh that he was going to settle down here was the best he could expect, the cherry on the cake. When he was asked why came alone after so long, he quoted a philosophical line to convey the universal truth, without revealing the truth of his personal life.
Whenever he was asked about his family again, he told the same story: she cannot come here with him because of her job obligations. Though the divorce thing was not specified, our father was not a fool to miss reading the faultlines on his glum face. He expected Adarsh to reveal it all on his own at the right time, whenever that was.
The special room meant for my brother was finally allotted to him. He was not told anything about the expenses incurred to make it luxurious. When Adarsh saw my ordinary room and compared the two, he realised there was still something special for him in his father’s heart. Finding me helpful, he offered space in the room. But I refused to sleep there. I thought I did not deserve the special room yet. My father came around later and asked me why I had not utilised that room when he had given me the keys. I said I was not used to such luxurious living.
Adarsh was living with us now though Dad tried to be cold and impersonal all the time. Whenever Adarsh asked about his daily medicines, he said I was put in charge of administering the doses. All the reports and prescriptions were in my custody, including the blood pressure monitoring gadget. Adarsh got the subtle message that health issues should not bother him now – the critical stage was thankfully over.
As Adarsh became busy with the business and helped me expand to the nearby states and overseas, my father was happy I was helping my brother with the equal partnership offer. He was discovering the goodness of the neglected son who built his life and business on human values and relationships. I had a slow start, but once it took off there was no looking back.
As the business grew well, and Adarsh became the visible face of the company. I chose to be eclipsed as a founder while he was all over the media for making it a global company. Just as my father was neglected as the investor who helped start a company that had now become a sensation. It was fine to be neglected here and there. Because the self is less important than the outcome. When Adarsh wanted to open an overseas branch in California, where he lived, I was supportive as he had a strong client network there. He thought it would help us grow more.
He approached our father to convince me to make it the head office.
“Settle it between the two of you, no mediation required from my end,” was how he responded to end his request.
I was beginning to sense Adarsh was planning to move out of the country again, empowering me to handle domestic operations while he wanted absolute control of the overseas business in the US and Europe. Frankly speaking, it was good that an Indian company was going global and making waves abroad. I saw no reason to reject his plan. Since I had already made him my equal partner, he had an equal say in the running of the business. Being more qualified and experienced than me, he could take the business to global heights.
Our father had dreams of our success and this was the best way to make that happen during his lifetime. Given his health condition, we should dissolve our minor differences and become a source of joy for him.
I agreed to let Adarsh execute his global vision. My father felt I was more than a brother to him. I took no credit as the business truly belonged to our father who invested at a crucial time when there was no other source of funding. He helped me set up a small business and Adarsh was my dear brother who expanded it. He deserved full credit for that, from local to going global.
*
As the divorce formalities were about to begin, Adarsh started preparing for his return. Within a year of staying in the house, in the special room constructed for his comfort, he decided it was time to move out. I did not want him to reveal anything about his marital discord and he honoured that promise. Our dinner-time discussions were all about business and our father never spoke a word about his marriage.
Our father was upset to hear about his departure, though he did not express his displeasure. He was perhaps thinking both his sons would stay with him forever, forgetting that Adarsh had a family abroad and they were also waiting for his return. Although Adarsh was leaving home, he consoled himself with the thought, that his sons were united. The sibling bond that had been missing all these years was firm now.
Adarsh vacated his room. He handed over the keys to me in the presence of our father, asking me to occupy the space forever, informing me that the cool breeze through the open windows on the southern side helped sleep well without the need for the air-conditioner.
At the time of leaving for the US again, he was grateful to the family for their timely support. When he reached there, he was a completely changed person. His first phone call was not about safe landing or the business development there. He chose to discuss the split of our family property and he wanted his share of the house since he needed to buy a new apartment there. He spoke about his meeting with real estate brokers and local promoters who were ready to buy our ancestral house during his stay at our residence. This was another deceptive face of Adarsh. I had given him the best offer to rebuild his life and he was discussing how I could persuade our father to sell the house and buy a small flat for ourselves.
“You are not going to marry and start a family now. But I wish to marry again and begin my second innings. My son will be the ultimate nominee.”
The man with tears in his eyes just a year ago could not be so selfish. I refused to believe he was the same Adarsh. He did not update me about the divorce and his remarriage. Just forwarded a few pictures of his new bride and sought my blessings. The speed of his execution was incredible. How could I tell our father that his son went back to divorce and remarry? How could I tell him that he wanted his share of the ancestral property as well? It was a dilemma for me. Sometimes I worried about the outcome of offering him partnership. He could gain control and split the business in his favour.
I reminded him he was doing well now so he could buy a house there with his earnings instead of forcing an aged parent to sell the house. He said he was not going to come back again and, after our father’s death, he would not like to get into litigation issues with me. I refused to compel our father to sell the property for Adarsh.
I was ready to transfer him the share of proceeds he needed from the sale of the house property after mutual discussion. “Consider the house sold and take the money and give me the signed, notarised legal papers specifying that you have got everything from our family.”
“Done.”
I gave Adarsh the full control over the overseas handicrafts business since he was leading it well. I slowed down my pace of work and spent more time with our father who was not keeping well. He noticed my growing aloofness from the business and I had to specify that Adarsh was handling it better than me.
“You supported your brother in so many ways. You gave everything he needed to rebuild his life and his personal setbacks were kept secret.”
He praised me to the skies for the first time with affectionate words, “You are a gem of a person. A wonderful human being. I am proud of you. Parents can also go wrong in understanding their own children. I am the best example to quote.”
The words I never got to hear were echoing in my ears for the first time. He gave me a warm, tight bear hug, the one I always saw between Adarsh and him.
I was wondering how my father learnt our secrets. When I pressed for the source, he chose to withdraw into a shell. Like a good journalist, he never revealed how he got to the core. He was glad he realised the worthlessness of Adarsh as a son, as a husband. He defended Adarsh’s first wife, saying he could not solely blame her for the breakup when there are so many flaws in his own son. “I do not want him to attend my funeral. And I will not give him a single penny of my savings. A hopeless son, a thankless brother who did not stay grateful to the person who helped him rebuild his life after divorce and financial loss. Tell him, this house will never be sold. It will become a public library.”
I told him to forget about Adarsh and his intentions. I suspected the local land sharks had contacted my father in my absence. I had already given up the controlling rights in the company and got his signature on the property papers. I showed my father the legal documents. Adarsh’s claims of ownership on this house had ceased to exist.
My father was glad that I had done exactly what he would have done. It was the first time I heard him speak glowingly about me: “I have only one son.”
The room meant for Adarsh was still kept locked – I never used it even though the keys were with me. It was a museum piece of sorts. My father insisted I should use it. But I did not want to be the substitute, a usurper of sorts. Sometimes I entered to clean the room and think of my lost brother for nowhere else in the house were his memories stored.
*
One day before my father died, he had asked me to open the special room. He looked at the pictures and smiled wistfully, trying to remember when these were clicked. I helped him fill up the gaps in his memory. He sat on the bed and looked outside the window, feeling the gentle breeze unsettle the tuft of grey hair on his forehead. Adarsh had a habit of putting it back in place. No such hand came forward to take of that.
*
I did not invite Adarsh to attend the funeral as per my father’s last wish. After the rites were over, ashes immersed in Haridwar, I informed him without mentioning the date of death and received a prompt message citing his problem to attend the cremation. He said he would organise a prayer meet in California and asked me to send a nice, smiling photograph of our dear father.
The burden of not informing him on time was off my chest as his response time indicated he would not have flown back to attend the cremation.
My father had realised his mistake during his lifetime and made amends. I chose to maintain my brother’s room as a closed space. I was sure if another mishap happened in his life, Adarsh would come back to seek support from the family, to take the keys of this special room to hide himself.
I handed over almost the entire business to him, retaining only a minor share for my basic needs. I never interfered in his decisions except when he delayed payments to the local craftsmen, artisans, and weavers or applied cost-cutting and retrenchment techniques as a corporate predator outsourcing traditional pieces of art and craft from the rural belt.
I continued to call it my brother’s room though I preserved it as a loving memory of my father. Adarsh had sold me his share of the property but I knew he would stake claim to it after my death. To prevent that from happening, I was left with the option of giving it a trust that would set up a library, like my father had wished to do. I went ahead with the formalities and started stocking books as my contribution. The upper floor was converted into a reading zone – except my brother’s room. I wanted to see a functional library during my lifetime so I let the trust take it over and begin the good work immediately. A marble bust of my father was installed and garlanded at the entrance, with a clear mention of his full name. The entire property became a public library.
My brother’s room was kept locked with a clear instruction to the trustee that in case a gentleman called Adarsh ever came here and sought refuge, he should be allowed to stay there as long as he wished to. Without any questions or objections.
I came out of the main gate and stood still for a while, gazing at the house of memories, at the nameplate announcing the late owner’s name. I stood under the open sky without fear or worries. I cast one final look at my brother’s room with closed windows on the upper floor. The rush of memories made me walk through life alone, looking at the blue sky and the fallen leaves on the pavement.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
“Speedy Gas” was a small, two-pump, single-bay gas station tucked into a forgotten corner of San Francisco. It was not the kind of station visited by those chasing the lowest price per gallon or making a hurried dash into a minimart, but to its old customers and to those who still valued personal service, Speedy Gas was a relic of a slower, more intimate relationship between driver, car, and service station operator, resembling a visit to a trusted family doctor.
Rita kept the Speedy Gas rituals: windshield wiped clean, hood lifted, fluids checked, tires tapped and filled. Rita approached quickly with the tools of her trade; window spray, clean rag, tire pressure gauge, and welcoming smile.
Below in the grease pit, Daniel lay beneath an aging sedan, his hands blackened with oil as he tightened the final bolts. The scent of motor oil, grease and cement walls of the pit surrounded him like family and was his sanctuary.
Rita stepped carefully toward the edge of the pit and looked down at him.
“Mister M, you’ve been working on that old car all day without a lunch break, and it’s nearing six o’clock.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“This car is more than transportation to its owner.
“Joan Hobson’s long life is wrapped up inside it this old car and driving it to Christmas to be with family will make her feel at home just like this pit and garage makes me feel at home. When I’m done, I want you to run the car over to Maxi Waxi’s and pay for ‘The Deluxe’ service wash.”
“I look at the invoices and know you’re undercharging your customers. You’re a generous man, Mister M.”
“Rita, I’m four times your age. I own this place free and clear and live comfortably inside my shoddy apartment behind the garage. My ‘generosity’ is paying it forward for my long life. I’ve survived. What matters is we’re serving the people who depend on us.”
“The grease pit is too dangerous for a man your age.”
“I may be one hundred and two years old, but I can still lubricate a chassis.”
“It hurts me to see you down there and living behind the garage in a cramped apartment alone. Spend Christmas with my family.”
“I celebrate eight days and nights with candles which is enough celebration for me but thank you. I’m a lonely old man who finds solace working here. My son worked alongside me after school, weekends, and summers at this garage. Ben was a natural born mechanic just like you.”
“I know you miss them dearly, Mister M.”
“I never had a chance to say goodbye to Ben. His jet was taking off from Naval Air Station Alameda to join the carrier USS Constellation at sea. I was busy replacing a radiator hose for an old customer, so I sent Helen off and told her I’d join her after the repair. She called me from the air station and said I missed Ben taking off to join the squadron. Helen said Ben appeared disappointed by not seeing me saying, ‘Tell pop’s I love him.’ She mentioned a look in his eyes as if he knew…
“I lost my only child, Ben, when his F-4 Phantom jet was shot down over Vietnam. He’s still listed as ‘MIA’, but we know Ben didn’t survive and buried him posthumously at the San Francisco National Cemetery. When Helen died peacefully at home twenty years ago, I sold our home including all its happy and painful memories to live and work here where I can keep my mind on work and cherish memories of working together with my son. I’ll be here opening and closing for our customers every day including holidays until the day I die and join Helen and Ben.”
The grease gun slipped in his hand and Daniel fell holding his chest.
“Are you okay, Mister M?”
“I’m having a heart attack!”
The last thing Daniel remembered was a mask placed over his face and Rita holding his hand.
*
Lieutenant Daniel Mercer was flying straight and level through a gray morning over the Atlantic. Suddenly, the cockpit filled with the bitter smell of burning oil and hot metal. The instrument panel flickered, the engine sputtered and fell silent. He knew his P-51 Mustang was hit by a lucky shot from a fallen Messerschmitt.
“Blue Jay Two, you hit?”
“Still flying but no engine and falling fast.”
The engine temperature needle swung hard into the red. Smoke curled backward across the wing. Daniel tightened his grip on the yoke. Below him, the ocean was choppy and cold.
A bullet had passed through his upper flank, grazing the ribs and tearing muscles. He adjusted the trim and remembered home, San Francisco. He thought of the cable cars on California Street, the ringing bell and the slow climb toward Nob Hill. His father’s garage was on California Street, and he would inherit it and forever live his life in the “City by the Bay”.
War had changed his career plans, and the aircraft was descending quickly. He could see England now, and the white cliffs of Dover emerged slowly rising out of the sea with welcoming smiles.
“I’ve got Dover in sight, Blue Jay Lead!”
“Take it straight into any field you see and may God be with you, Blue Jay Two!”
*
He opened his eyes. The air smelled of starched sheets, chlorine, antiseptic, and pain. A woman stood beside him. She wore a white neatly pressed nurse uniform, her posture was erect, and her expression composed. Her hair was pinned neatly beneath her cap. One hand rested lightly against his wrist, fingers counting the rhythm of his pulse.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in a British Army hospital.
“I’m Lieutenant Nurse Stephanie Hall.”
“Let me out of here!”
“You’re wounded and require proper medical care.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“Sir, if we must strap you to the bed to ensure you receive proper care, we shall do so.”
“I can see you are going to be a difficult patient. Most of you Yanks are.”
“I need to get back to my unit.”
“Where is your unit, Lieutenant?”
“My squadron is the ‘United States Army Eight Airforce’ based in East Anglia, England.”
“A ‘Mighty Eight’, lad. We’re grateful for your service to Britain. How old are you?”
“My birthdate is on my dog tag.”
“I see a very brave, defiant, man-boy of no more than nineteen, correct?”
“I guess the truth no longer matters because the war is over for me. I lied about my age when I enlisted. I serviced the Packard Custom Eight Clipper at my pop’s garage owned by a Brigadier General who pulled strings for me. They rushed me through flight school in time to see action before the war ends. I’ll be twenty years old on Christmas Eve.”
“Your mother was very fortunate to receive a gift of a beautiful baby boy the night before Christmas. I expect you to write home and tell her and your ‘pop’s’ you’re receiving the best of care and will be home soon.”
He studied her face and saw beauty, confidence, and something else, buried deeper. He did not yet know what it was.
*
The hospital ward was filled with wounded men. At night, the air filled with murmured prayers, delirious whispers, and sometimes screaming. Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall adjusted bandages, administered morphine, and checked pulses. Her presence was precise, efficient, and compassionate.
She rarely spoke more than necessary but he watched the way she leaned closely when listening, the faint crease that appeared between her brows when she concentrated, and how beautifully her figure filled out the uniform. He found himself waiting for her. He learned she worked the late shift ending at midnight.
*
He woke to find her sitting on the edge of his bed.
“I’m off duty. Care to chat?”
“Only if you move in closer; the crash made me hard of hearing.”
“Nonsense, but brilliant try. What’s it like where you’re from?”
“San Francisco is a slice of heaven. The fog rolls in low, like it owns the city. You hear the cable cars before you see them.”
“Cable cars?”
“The San Francisco cable car system hurdles up the hills. You hear the bell and their steel grip biting into the tracks. It’s a good sound. It means people are going somewhere. Going to work. Going home where I want to be. My father has a garage on California Street with one bay and two pumps out front. Before the war, I spent my days in a grease pit underneath a car or truck with oil dripping down upon me and grease under my fingernails that never quite washed out.”
“That sounds dreadful but delightfully masculine. You have long slender beautiful fingers resembling those of a pianist which contradict your profession.”
“Slide in closer and I’ll let you read my palms, too.”
“Just a few inches, Lieutenant but I warn you my scream will awaken this ward.”
“You’re bluffing, you’re a compassionate nurse and wouldn’t risk waking these poor wounded bastards.”
“I remind you that you’re also ‘wounded’ and an irreverent ‘bastard’.”
“Find me sexy?”
“Possibly, Lieutenant and you’re sex appeal may likely increase after talking more about the garage.”
“I enjoy repairing cars. A customer say’s he can’t get to work or his wife’s expecting soon and he needs it ready. You find what’s wrong, set it right, and witness the beautiful sound of the engine turning over again. I helped him and it made me feel like I mattered.”
“Your work is like that of a surgeon, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, call me a car doctor! Ah, I made you chuckle…Your hands are soft and beautiful and don’t look accustomed to hard labour.”
“Before the war, I was an appendage to a man of position. That sort of vital national service.”
“I don’t understand a damn word you’re saying. Spell it out.”
“After graduation from boarding school, I was placed into an arranged marriage with a man I didn’t know. He was the first man I came to know. I didn’t love him and there was no romance. His family sorely desired a male heir to carry on his family line. We tried and failed repeatedly to have a baby. I was blamed for being infertile despite his private admission of impotence. I remained a dutiful wife standing beside her husband instead of close to him in the same bed. Now, I find myself helping broken men stand again. Helping them return to their lives. Just like the cars you made whole and sent them on their way.”
“Where’s home?”
She chose not to answer, knowing nothing she could say would translate across the caste and privilege gulf between them. Her world was a life he had never imagined, just as she could never truly appreciate the grease-stained certainty of his.
“Home is wherever I am needed.”
They remained there in the dim light, studying each other with the quiet curiosity of two travelers who had met at the crossing point of two lives. He saw refinement that both fascinated and intimidated him. She saw competence that steadied her, a man whose worth was measured not in title but in usefulness. She saw a man she ached for and dreamed about.
*
Night after night, they spoke. Their formality softened. He called her Steph and she called him Daniel. They recognised the war they shared brought them closer and freed them from needing to understand dissimilar worlds.
*
A distant chime signaled midnight awakening Daniel. Steph was no longer wearing her cap, and her long flowing blond locks fell softly around her face. She saw his eyes open and he smiled.
“I have a surprise for you, Daniel. But you must keep it a secret. I’m breaking hospital regulations.”
She handed him a paper bag. He opened it and found a bottle of Coca-Cola, a Hershey bar, and a pack of American cigarettes with a matchbook.
“What made you do this at your peril?”
“I wanted you to feel some small semblance of home.”
“You’re a wonderful woman, Steph. I wish I had met you under such different circumstances. Steph, what can I do for you?”
“Daniel, just be my friend and listen to me. I have no one else to speak to about these matters.”
“What do you have to tell me, Steph?”
“My husband Bernard was a pilot. I spent two years waiting for him to come home until notice arrived; he was shot down and killed.”
“I’m sorry for you, Steph.”
“I’m lonely, Daniel. I find meaning and purpose working here but I think I would like to find the passion and yearning absent in my marriage with you, Daniel. I also wish we met under different circumstances.”
*
The deceased were removed in the very early hours of the morning so as not to alarm the dying. Their beds were filled by morning. A priest came by each bed at dawn, whispered a prayer, and waved his hands in the form of the cross. He never spoke but Daniel muttered, “I guess one prayer is as good as another.”
*
Stephanie arrived just after midnight on a clear cold night. The moon’s light cast a faint but warm glow across the ward. She drew the privacy drape around his bed. She stood beside him, her hands trembling faintly, and they devoured each other with their eyes.
“Do I smell ‘Chanel No. 5’ perfume?”
“I chose a scent you might recognise from San Francisco and used so little only you would notice.”
“Why the perfume?”
“Because after midnight, near to you, I’d rather be a woman than a nurse, darling.”
She climbed onto the bed beside him; her movements deliberate, urgent, tender, raw, vulnerable, and filled decades of neglect, culminating in a glorious culmination of emotions. He held her close but neither spoke. The world beyond the drape ceased to exist.
*
Rain traced soft lines down the tall English windows. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his shoulder wrapped in stiff white bandages. Daniel noticed fewer beds were being filled, which meant the war was ending.
The curtain providing intimacy at midnight opened without haste. It was Nurse Captain Melinda Richardson. She carried herself like an officer accustomed to command. Her uniform was immaculate, her posture erect, and expression firm but not unkind. She pulled a chair close to him to speak quietly.
“I have come to speak with you about Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“It has come to my attention that the two of you have spoken intimately on more than one occasion. She has attended to you personally, even when such attention could have been delegated. I do not interfere lightly in the private lives of my nurses, but I am responsible for their well-being, particularly in matters where misunderstandings may arise. You are an American and come from a nation where distinctions of class are less formal and permanent. That is not the case in England. Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall was married to the son of Lord Hall. She returned to his family estate a widow before she had truly become a wife. She is the daughter of a distinguished family, and her father holds influence at the highest levels of government. She could have spent the war in comfort and safety. Instead, she chose to serve Britain by becoming a nurse and entering the army. She will one day return to the family estate. Her father is ill and mother deceased. She is the last of her line.”
“In other words, she’s out of my league.”
“You’re blunt but on point.”
“I’m from San Francisco, Captain. My father owns a garage. I suppose that’s all there is to say.”
“You became an officer and crossed an ocean to defend a country not your own. That speaks highly of you. But there are worlds, Lieutenant, that do not easily join. Not because of character but because of obligation and history. Bluntly, Stephanie Hall’s Anglicanism and your Jewish faith present barriers to a union between you both. The fact that you have won her heart is not a trivial thing.”
“Steph never brought up religion although the letter ‘H’ for Hebrew was stamped on my ‘dog tag’.”
“I ask you to understand what it all means and what it may never be permitted to become.”
He looked past her, toward the dark window where the rain pelted reminding him of the bullets fired to kill him and this time, hitting his heart.
“I understand, Captain. Requesting your leave to process all of this.”
“I wish you the best of everything and a long life, Lieutenant.”
Captain Richardson left him, but he knew that survival, however miraculous, did not free a man from the boundaries of the world dividing people. War should have taught him that lesson, but for a moment in time, a beautiful woman from a stately manor and mechanic-turned-pilot fell in love.
*
The day came when he could stand, walk, and be discharged. They did not speak of it until the morning it arrived. He stood beside his bed, wearing his uniform again. Steph stood before him.
“You’re returning to your unit and then home?”
“Yes, to the life I had lived before the war.”
“I will miss you, Daniel.”
He attempted to pull her tight to him, but she resisted.
“You cared for me and I took you into my heart, Steph. I want to say more but there are no words which will suffice except a kiss which you’ll permit me, please.”
She entered his embrace and released the pent-up desire raging through her until Captain Richardson approached with his discharge papers. Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall watched Daniel leave forever but knowing he left behind a permanent memento.
*
Their son was born in the spring and she named him Bernard. Steph raised him alone. She never wrote to Daniel and never spoke his name, but she was reminded of him in every feature of their beautiful son.
*
Daniel returned to San Francisco, resumed his life working inside his father’s garage and married. The war became memory. Years and decades passed. His garage on California Street was built with his hands and discipline learned in the cockpit, and watching the dedicated nurses complete their rounds with compassion which he shared with each of his customers.
*
Daniel awoke and found himself alone inside an ICU not resembling the hospital ward he recalled from the war. The war defining his youth was more than eighty years behind him and losing his son and wife faded into memory.
Rita was cautioned by the cardiologist,
“Say your goodbyes before it’s too late. His birthday is tomorrow. We didn’t think a birthday celebration was appropriate for a dying man. Nobody in this ICU can recall a birth and death on the same day particularly Christmas Eve.”
“Mister Mercer never shared his birthday with me even though I’m the closest thing to family.”
Rita held Daniel’s frail hand in one hand and a faded sealed envelope with foreign postage stamps in the other hand. Daniel’s eyes were hollow, but he recognised the aged envelope.
“I searched your office for somebody to contact and came across this envelope from England addressed to you many decades ago and never opened.
“Would you like me to open it?”
Daniel remembered his decision not to revisit the past by opening the envelope because he put the past behind him, but the memories and mourning were about to end, and he motioned for Rita to open the envelope.
Rita removed a photograph of a handsome young Royal Air Force aviator. She turned over the photo revealing a handwritten note suggesting a woman’s soft touch with a fountain pen which she read softly:
Dearest Daniel, Please meet our son, Bernard Mercer Hall. Bernard was told his father was an aviator killed in the war. The night our son was conceived inside the darkness of the ward remains a blessed, romantic memory and a warm togetherness two young people shared inside the cold of war. After graduation from Cambridge, he darted off to the RAF to become an aviator like his father. I’m mailing this photograph and note in the final days of my life. I knew you as a sensitive young lad and you may be reticent to open it fearing to relieve the past which I fully understand. Life was kind permitting our union during times of mutual need but also cruel in keeping the three of us apart. I hope our beautiful son will bring you happiness and remove any grief life may have dealt you. Goodbye, my love.
Daniel’s American son followed him into the sky and lost to it but here was another son; a son born of survival and two lovers from different worlds. Although Bernard walked beneath ancient, privileged towers, he, too, flew inside the same sky that had both spared and punished three pilots; a husband, and a father and son. Daniel was gifted with a second son, and his grief was replaced with pride in two heroic sons born from two magnificent mothers.
Rita held Daniel’s hand which gripped tightly and suddenly let go. A sound from the heart monitor resembling the bells of the cable cars Daniel warmly spoke about signalling his long journey ended. Daniel’s cable car reached the top of California Street and waited for him to climb aboard with a nonstop flight to a grand reunion of loved ones; a beautiful extended family all with eyes towards the sky.
From Public Domain
Jonathan Ferrini has published nearly one hundred short fiction stories and poems. He is the host and writer of the weekly “The Razor’s Ink Podcast” where he discusses movies, television, and music.
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I walk around Koreatown where billboards obstruct the sky when I look up.
What is the point of so many
of them is all I have to say? I look up at them as I see
more of them being installed. I could do without them. I rather see the sky and clouds.
So much wasted space. One day the skies will be gone. We will go blind looking at the ads. All we will see of the stars are more ads. We look at all the pretty colours from all the signs and barely a slice of moonlight.
The planet will be obliterated by the blight of floating billboards. This is all I need to say. Why try and deny that everything that is going up is another thing we do not need. For years I have looked in the distance counting on the sky to be there.
THE CHILD-WIND
I conversed with the child-wind who went by delirium.
It played its childlike games blowing hats off the heads of older women and men walking to church.
When they stooped to pick up their hats the child-wind blew the hats only a few steps away to entice them to try to pick up the hats again until they gave up from exhaustion.
I asked the child-wind why it was so mean. It told me to keep quiet if I did not want it to blow my hat away to the next city.
The child-wind told me it was only kidding. It told me how lonely it felt. It said I was the only human it ever conversed with. It said it was just me, and a small bird that it spoke to. It said the small bird was its closest friend and I was a close second by a little bit.
MULISH
I reach for the dictionary when I read certain poets because I was too stubborn to learn certain words in school or to read what was in the curriculum. Do not get me wrong. I love words and reading. I just picked the books I wanted to read. My mulish ways cost me in gaining knowledge that could have shaped my words in different ways. Still, I think I did alright. I watch the sun setting in the distance. I can describe it in simple words whereas a less mulish man could adorn the words with words I could not imagine using. I do not want to get carried away or show off. I let night overcome the day as I write under stars which I cannot see from the inside of my room unless I look out the window with half my body hanging out. I would not want to fall or hurt myself.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, now lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His poetry book, Peering into the Sun, was published by Poet’s Democracy.
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Like many people, I have complicated feelings about AI. On a recent trip to the United States, my daughter, who is deaf and has never learned English, was able to keep up with dinner table conversations with the help of an app which transcribed and translated spoken words, almost in real time. However, as one who teaches English as a foreign language, I am dismayed by the extent to which students outsource their learning.
As a writer, I was both flattered to find that my writing had been used to train Large Language Models, and angry that it had been done without my consent. Meanwhile, just the other day I enjoyed a movie featuring a computer-generated octopus, but I also worry that moviemakers will substitute human actors with AI ones. Apparently, this is already happening in China and other places.
I am also alarmed by how often my husband consults ChatGPT in his decision-making. For example, we recently decided to purchase new curtains for our living/dining room. Previously, the three windows in question had been hung with floral curtains in coordinating but different patterns. How nice it would be to finally have matching curtains on all three windows! We went curtain-shopping and fell for a beautiful set of drapes with deep crimson roses that would go well with our deep red cabinets. We didn’t buy them right away, however.
In the interim, my husband asked ChatGPT what colour curtains would go best with our décor. “Greige,” came the reply. A neutral colour, such as a cross between gray and beige, would go with everything. We would easily tire of a busy print, and loud colors would overwhelm.
We went curtain-shopping again. This time, we considered more subdued designs. I still thought that a floral print would be nice, but I was willing to go in for a change. We wound up selecting curtains in an elegant gray ombre. They are fine, but not quite as cheerful as the ones we had before.
Next, my husband and I began painting the cement wall that separated our lot from the neighbour’s. Surprisingly, he agreed to a mint green. It reminded me of the lovely pastel houses on Rainbow Row in Charleston, South Carolina, or San Francisco, California. A few houses down, some other neighbours had painted their house yellow. I supported this trend.
When we had finished the wall, my husband said that he was going to paint the gate. “What colour do you think would be best?” he asked.
“How about blue?” Sky blue would be uplifting. A darker blue would be a nod to the indigo for which our town was named.
My husband went to ChatGPT for confirmation. “He says that we should paint it greige.”
I rolled my eyes. First of all, it was not a “he,” not a sentient being. Secondly, it was becoming clear that if we always relied on AI’s advice, the whole world would soon be bland and inoffensive – in other words, greige.
This time, I refused to go along with the verdict. My husband asked again, apparently with different wording. He read the reply out loud to me: “Your wife is not wrong…”
Another thing about AI is that it aims to please.
Ultimately, my husband painted the gate blue.
From Public Domain
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
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Art by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha (1951-1982): From Public Domain
POEMS IN EXILE
In exile these poems seek open windows and doors to fly and walk with a purpose only they could unlock.
Without hats and the warm sun bearing down, beating them senseless they fight back with words sharp as razors until night comes around.
Gone but not forgotten these poems linger like the cities’ aromas, sweet and sour taste, and pungent scents that
go for the jugular. These poems are not tame or mild, when the world is going to hell. They must speak the truth.
REBIRTH
In my rebirth I will be the thorn on the rose, the aroma of the sweetest baked cookie, the dream that was not supposed to come true. I guard my face and do not speak a word for fear of being bloodied and becoming one more cadaver. I tie my hands for fear of striking back in retaliation. What is best, to live in agony and fear or to speak my mind even if I end up being one more cadaver? In my rebirth I will be the dream that came true.
THINGS I DID AND WILL DO TODAY
And I sleep. And I dream. And I love to reinvent what joy is. And music flows, a river I listen to all day long. And I live. And I love life. And life is reality. And I drive my car. And I look at the sky. And clouds seem like forests. And one seems like a wolf. And little red riding hood is safe beyond the clouds. And the songs keep me sane.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in Los Angeles.He has been published in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Chiron Review, Kendra SteinerEditions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His most recent poems have appeared in Four FeathersPress.
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In casual rags I made my way down the streets of El Paso saturated with the city’s aromas. The trees were perfectly situated to drop shade as the burning sun loitered above. Each day seemed worse than the next as drought played its silly games. No water fell from the sky for weeks. I checked each day as I walked in my casual rags drenched in sweat. At night I dreamt of the water that would not drop from the sky. In silence I meditated and imagined how great it would feel for rain to start falling on me.
MOVING OUT
The curtains are drawn. I folded the sheets. There is no hold here where I once was held.
This is goodbye. I have to let you go, house.
Every memory is etched in every cell of my being. Mother, father, raised me.
A THOUSAND YEARS
My body is not much to look at. I am the least interesting man on earth. I have never been to Paris, France. I have been to the Paris Las Vegas. I have never kissed you on a winter morning or at any season. I have never dreamt about you kissing me. You hugged me once. If I lived to eternity, I will never forget that. If I lived for another year, I would not forget that. If I lived a thousand years, I would always remember that day.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in Los Angeles.He has been published in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Chiron Review, Kendra SteinerEditions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His most recent poems have appeared in Four FeathersPress.
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Victor grew up inside a trailer park with dilapidated trailers packed together like tuna in a rusty old can. His grandmother’s trailer smelled of cleaning supplies; the scent she brought home from cleaning offices overnight. She raised Victor alone after his mother abandoned him for a life as a hippie drifting from commune to commune.
She knew he was different: not able to speak, withdrawn, unable to tie his shoes, write his name, never learning personal hygiene and unable to feed himself. Schools labeled him “retarded” and wouldn’t enroll him.
In the corner of the trailer sat a dying black-and-white television with bent rabbit ears. Victor sat cross-legged inches from the television screen, mesmerized by flickering images while the picture rolled and the sound hissed. His grandmother couldn’t afford a sitter to supervise him while she worked. Victor didn’t require supervision because the television and a transistor radio kept him engaged inside a world, he felt safe.
The components of a broken transistor radio were Victor’s playmates: a ferrite rod antenna wrapped in copper; a small oval loudspeaker; and the tuning capacitor. Other friends included the compact circuit board, cylindrical transistors, and striped resistors.
He spread the radio components across the floor. His grandmother gave him a wooden puzzle set of familiar geometric patterns. Victor preferred triangles because they had a base and stood upright like he was signaling the need for steadiness.
Victor built faces with the components of the radio; two round capacitors became eyes; a curved wire became a mouth sometimes bent upward, flat, or dipped into a quiet sadness; the loudspeaker formed the body; the ferrite rod antenna became a spine; and copper coils became hair. He placed a small transistor perched on top like a hat, tilted just enough to suggest the figure was attempting to say “hello” with a tip of its hat. Victor used components the way other children handled crayons.
His grandmother described his component constructions to his pediatrician, “He always places a mouth on the triangles.”
The pediatrician suggested,“I believe these triangles are Victor’s only way of communicating his feelings. Children like Victor require around the clock care and will never amount to anything more than grown toddlers. As he grows into manhood and you become frail, there is no alternative but to have Victor committed to a state hospital where retarded children are cared for and live out their lives.”
*
The intake office at the Junction State Hospital smelled of antiseptic and urine. The intake social worker, Joanie Greenstreet, watched Victor closely as he rocked in his chair, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
“This is the worst part of my job. It’s best you slip out of the room with no goodbye, so Victor isn’t aware.”
Victor’s grandmother left her grandson forever.
*
Junction State Hospital was built in 1940 on state land inside the countryside, out of sight, and out of mind where the paved road with sidewalks and streetlights gave way to a narrow dirt road leading past the locked rusting gates of the hospital resembling a haunted mansion.
The hospital was for children who did not speak; rocked incessantly; banged their heads against walls; screamed at sounds no one else could hear; and couldn’t feed or bathe themselves. They were children with autism before autism had a proper name; Down Syndrome; Cerebral Palsy; learning disabilities, and genetic conditions doctors didn’t understand.
Their care required around the clock attention, which was beyond the financial resources for most families. The parents were convinced by medical providers “long-term placement”; “specialized supervision”; and “they’ll be safer” were the only alternative.
Fathers hurriedly carried suitcases inside and left quickly while mothers cried openly and others didn’t cry, having lost the ability. Many parents never came inside choosing to hand their child off to an attendant from the car like dropping a package marked “No Return Address” into a mailbox.
As the children matured inside Junction, they roamed the narrow hallways, heard keys, and came accustomed to the smell of disinfectants, faeces, and urine. They quickly learned which staff were gentle and which were not.
When they died without family, there was nowhere for them to go except for an undignified cemetery on the hospital grounds.
*
Victor was placed in a ward with boys suffering from mild to severe disabilities. Some were cunning and feigned friendship, sitting next to Victor on the edge of his bed only to touch the portable television he brought with him which he hid under the bed. His radio components were confiscated, thrown away as “choking hazards” which eliminated the safe and kind world which might shield Victor from for the horrors of the ward. He erupted into violent fits requiring sedation and restraints at times. Victor refused group activities and meals if it meant leaving the TV behind.
*
Joanie Greenstreet was a young post-doc psychologist who tried to help Victor adjust but couldn’t reach him. She offered to keep the television safe inside her office, but Victor wouldn’t allow it to be taken from him.
The hospital’s chief psychiatrist was determined to permanently medicate Victor and subdue him into submission, but Joanie pleaded for more time to reach Victor explaining,
“I see something special inside Victor, Doctor Spencer. I need more time to reach him.”
“You supervise a large ward of boys demanding your attention and making Victor a ‘pet project’ isn’t fair to the others, but I’ll give you a limited amount of time.”
*
Doctor Spencer’s words dusted up Joanie’s memories of a failed marriage to a man whose family tree spawned several babies with “Down Syndrome” and, when she became pregnant with his baby as an undergraduate, he demanded she receive Amniocentesis testing.
The results came back showing the genetic markers for a baby with Down Syndrome. “You’ll have an abortion, dear, and we’ll try again.”
“I’ve been reading babies born with Down Syndrome can lead productive lives, dear.”
“I won’t stand for you delivering a freak of nature. Choose an immediate abortion or a divorce!”
Joanie’s decision to acquiesce to the abortion created a fracture in the marriage which led to divorce. She finished college earning a bachelor’s and master’s degree in social work determined to assist families and those afflicted with developmental disabilities.
*
Joanie motivated Victor to attend group meals by permitting him to bring along his TV. She collected broken transistor radios from sympathetic staff members which permitted Victor to return to a familiar, safe place within his mind, inside the privacy of her office. Victor trusted Joanie.
*
After months of their meal routine, Joanie was optimistic Victor could avoid permanent sedation when he agreed to leave behind the television underneath his bed when going to meals. One evening after dinner, Joanie escorted Victor to his ward. The television was on top of his bed and the knobs and rabbit ears were broken off accompanied by a perverse chorus of laughter and giggling from the boys inside the ward.
Victor screamed while rocking back and forth managing to break free from Joanies embrace. Three staff members subdued him with plans to administer a mind-numbing sedative. Joanie wrestled the syringe from the attendant. She held Victor tightly until he settled down.
Joanie tucked Victor into bed and sat beside him all evening. She recalled a small shop inside town, “Nakamura’s TV & Radio Repair”
*
Joanie obtained a day pass to have Victor accompany her to the repair shop. They carried the broken television inside the shop smelling of dust and warm metal cluttered with old TV sets and radios.
Kenji Nakamura was an old man with a pocket protector loaded with pens, pencils, and tiny screwdrivers. He flipped the television around, removed the back, and stared inside.
“It’s all vacuum tubes. Even if I could find the parts, the cost of repair is more than buying a refurbished set. For ten dollars, I’ll sell you a reconditioned set including a remote control.”
Kenji held Victor’s hand, guiding his forefinger to the blue button pressing the remote. The television jumped to life with a crystal-clear screen. Victor was mesmerized by the ability to command the television.
“You’re holding a magic wand.”
Kenji leaned into Joanie and whispered, “Why don’t you buy it for the kid and take it with you?”
“I have a plan in mind which might be breakthrough therapy for Victor.”
*
Victor collected pop bottles from every trash can and sometimes absconding with half-filled soda pop bottles he found on desks. Staff members collected bottles from home and placed them inside a collection drum within Joanie’s office. Victor’s daily collection showed a work ethic with a goal in mind which impressed Joanie and Doctor Spencer.
*
After months of collecting bottles, Victor placed a soda pop bottle inside the collection drum. He pointed to a ten-dollar bill Joanie taped to the bottle collection drum reminding him of the monetary goal.
“You’ve collected five hundred bottles according to my tally. Let me hold your forefinger to the calculator. Let’s press five, zero, zero. What is the price paid for each bottle, Victor?”
Victor practiced tracing the number two and cent sign for weeks and traced the number and cent symbol with his finger in the air.
“Let’s press the letter ‘X’ which will multiply ‘500’ by two cents.”
Joanie held Victor’s forefinger to the calculator’s equal sign. “10.00” glowed in red. He ran to the ten-dollar bill taped to the collection drum, tore it off, and proudly handed it to Joanie. Victor tugged on Mrs. Greenstreet’s arm as a non-verbal signal to immediately leave for Kenji’s shop to purchase the television set.
*
Kenji proudly handed Victor the television.
“Why are packing boxes strewn about?”
“I’m retiring because transistors have put me out of business.”
He handed Victor a tattered and faded blue three-ring binder.
“These are my notes including everything I learned in the Army Signal Corps and repairing TV’s and radios for twenty years. I want you to have it.”
Victor opened it carefully as if understanding it contained magic. The pages were filled with precise pencil drawings including circuits, pathways, and transistors including handwritten notes. Victor studied the first diagram, and his breathing changed, catching Kenji’s attention.
Victor’s finger lifted and hovered above the paper before touching, following and tracing the circuits pathway. His finger shifted slightly and to a different point and found a shorter path and tapped it once. Victor looked towards Kenji as if speaking in a non-verbal communique only the two would understand. Kenji felt something stir in his gut.
Victor placed his finger in the air sketching an invisible correction knowing he mastered an improvement to the diagram. Kenji wrote on the page what Victor was inscribing in the air with his finger pencil.
“Is this what you see?”
Victor traced the path with his finger on Kenji’s diagram. He tapped it once. Kenji understood Victor was not reading the circuits like a map but inventing shortcuts for the pathways allowing the signal to flow quickly and flawlessly.
“Victor knows the signal’s destination and devised a better way for it to arrive. I hit a wall with my intellect, but Victor doesn’t see a wall. He intuitively devises pathways over, under, and around my wall. Permit him to study the binder, Joanie.”
“You believe he understands it?”
“I believe he understands what it wants to become.”
Joanie carefully turned the pages finding detailed handwritten drawings of electronic circuitry including images of tiny boxes with legs resembling metal insects.
“What are these images, Kenji?”
“Tiny transistors replacing vacuum tubes and the future of electronics.”
“Are you certain you want to part with your life’s study?”
“I’m not parting but handing the baton off to a new generation who will usher electronics into the future.”
*
Joanie set up a desk, lamp, and chair inside her office for Victor to study. Joanie watched as Victor sketched transistors and circuits. Kenji’s binder began to fill with pages of original study intuitively devised as if constructing the triangular figures he adorned with radio components. Kenji organised his study as if he were providing Victor with a light to follow discovering new pathways Victor would provide to the signal.
Victor watched television with the binder open on his lap. The screen glowed, and so did the pages of the tattered blue binder. Nobody except Victor knew there were two signals inside; a signal guiding him through the world as it was, and the other signal showing him what the future of the world could become.
Joanie invited Doctor Spencer to review the blue binder with her. He turned each page with fascination.
“A TV repairman and Victor put this together?”
“The original work was a gift from Kenji Nakamura to Victor, but the newest pages are Victor’s original scholarship.”
“I developed a rudimentary knowledge of electronics by reading Popular Electronics as a young man. The original scholarship resembles a ‘paint by numbers’ directional guide for Victor to follow. Victor owns this?”
“Yes.”
“Small computer companies are sprouting up which will change the world. They’ll want a peek at this work but, before they do, I want to consult with a patent attorney.”
*
Victor and Joanie sat as the attorney explained the importance of protecting the blue binder with patent applications. Victor was distracted mimicking the finger gestures of a secretary striking the keys of a typewriter.
“I’ve prepared a retainer agreement but given Victor’s diminished mental acuity, he’ll require a guardian’s signature.”
“Doctor Spencer will sign.”
“I’m also preparing a trust for the benefit of Victor.”
“Why is that necessary?”
“Stand by and find out, Joanie.”
*
Vigorous attempts to locate Kenji led to an obituary about his burial at Arlington National Cemetery.
Negotiations for purchasing the blue binder followed quickly after filing the patent applications with the potential sale price reaching into the millions of dollars.
“If Victor will agree to sell the blue binder, he can build a home suitable for his special needs with round the clock care and retain a sizable estate for himself.”
“You must make Victor understand the value of his intellectual property or in time, others may improve upon Victor’s innovations, and the blue binder will become worthless.
*
Money meant nothing to Victor because his world didn’t comprehend what it could buy, control, or influence. Victor refused to look at renditions of new homes because the small bed inside the ward with his black and white remote-controlled television was home.
Joanie never attempted to influence Victor to sell the blue binder. She made gentle suggestions as though placing electronic components on a workbench and trusting his hands to assemble them. She hit a nerve when she mentioned,
“…kindness is its own reward like a gift from Kenji to you of the blue binder allowing you to carry on his study.”
Victor understood Joanie that meant the signal’s pathway design was finally completed. Kenji provided him with a compass to follow along transistor trail, and Victor understood currents moving through copper also move through people. He knew currents went where it was guided, and money was a current. Victor found the inspiration to provide others with the happiness he found inside a smiling electronic triangle built with components.
*
Doctor Spencer retired from Junction State Hospital and devoted his retirement years to pioneering the burgeoning field of neuroscience. Doctor Spencer made a visit to Victor before leaving the hospital forever. He came upon Victor sitting with Joanie as he designed improved pathways inside the blue binder.
“I’ve spent my medical career learning how signals move through the brain and become interrupted requiring people to live inside Junction State Hospital. Big electronic boxes called ‘computers’ are helping us to understand why pathways become distorted and the signals are lost inside the brain. Your blue binder can help us build smarter computers and show us how to repair twisted pathways and confused signals.”
Victor turned his attention back into the pages of the binder not noticing Doctor Spencer and Joanie had left the ward. Doctor Spencer left behind a framed photograph of himself, Victor, and Joanie, taken not long after Victor arrived at the hospital. The photo was a reminder of the first day he didn’t feel alone but happy like the smiling triangle wearing a hat.
*
Joanie returned to her office from morning rounds to find the blue binder on her chair with a smiling component triangle inscribed with a letter, “I”. Doctor Spencer explained the notation was an engineering abbreviation for the term “sustained current”.
*
Joanie retired but Victor remained enjoying quiet happiness watching his television illuminating darkness. The framed photograph of Joanie, Dr. Spencer, and himself was hung near his bed. On his nightstand, a vacuum tube gifted to him by Kenji remained reminding Victor that it once provided the glow behind a television screen creating light, but now, he felt like he gifted the same glow creating light to others made possible by the advances within neuroscience leaping from the pages of the blue binder.
*
Institutions like Junction State Hospital were replaced with group homes providing home-like environments and patients transferred elsewhere. Victor didn’t moan the loss of familiar people because he lived within the circuitry of his mind where the signals resembling Joanie’s quiet voice and Kenji’s patient hands remained.
Victor was the last to be buried within the hospital cemetery. Junction State Hospital was replaced by a new state college. The neuroscience institute created a scholarship for underprivileged students studying electrical engineering named, The Blue Binder Scholarship.
Although the hospital was forgotten, Victor remained broadcasting a signal comprised of memories including love passing like currents between human beings.
Victor Kline 1958–2014 He could not live in the world as it was, so he quietly helped build the one that came next.
Jonathan Ferrini is the author of nearly one hundred short stories and poems. He is the host and writer of the weekly “The Razor’s Ink Podcast” where he discusses movies, television, and music. A partial collection of Jonathan’s short stories has been published within Hearts Without Sleeves Twenty-Three Stories (available at Amazon). Jonathan received his MFA in motion picture and television at UCLA. He resides in San Diego, California.
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I forget the names of streets. My memory has slowed in time. I am just happy to be able to think with this mind.
I am often in the clouds with this mind thinking how long will it be when it rains again. I forget the exact date it did
rain. I know it was more than a month or maybe two months ago. I was looking at the sky
when the rain fell inside my eyes. I do not know what street I was at when the rain came down.
NAMING CLOUDS
I tried to name each cloud I saw throughout the day.
I called one dark angel which had a serpent’s tongue and a devil’s tail. Every time
I looked up was to name another cloud. Infierno
was the name I gave the hell cloud with its heart
on the outside. Hell I named it. Saintliness was far from
its design. Rimbaud I named another cloud just because.
I SAY ENOUGH
I say enough about the best and worst of times. It is nature and the cosmic voodoo of life that keeps this itch alive to let my anger, joy, and sadness out. What about love? I say a little about it some days too. I say enough of love when I am stuck in reflections of when I believed in such things. My cloudy mind is often lost in a shadow of doubt.
Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in Abramelin, Barbaric Yawp, Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Fixator Press, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, The Literary Underground, and Unlikely Stories.
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“We’ll need to do more tests to determine what stage it’s in, but … yes, we’re sure.”
Megan sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the framed photograph of a colorful hot air balloon hanging on the office wall behind the oncologist. She wished it were her who clutched the balloon’s basket rail and drifted away toward the far hills and the sea beyond. But her husband’s grip on her left hand had tightened so much that it crushed her fingers and destroyed her ability to escape.
“I know this is a hard thing to be told,” Dr. Marcum said. “But we can fight this and, with luck, you can beat it.”
Megan managed a weak smile. “I’ve never been very lucky … except maybe marrying Ted and having Kaylee.”
“Maybe we can change your luck.”
“How much … how much time do I have?”
“That’ll depend on the severity of your disease and how it responds to treatment. If it’s localised, with surgery to remove part or all of the pancreas, the one-year survival rate is over 70%.”
“And if it has spread?”
“Well … that’s not good … 10% or less.”
The silence built. Megan let out a deep breath and continued to stare at the balloon photograph.
Ted cleared his throat. “So … so what’s next, doctor?”
“We’ll do PET and CT scans to get a good picture of what’s going on, check the liver and lymph nodes to see if the cancer has spread, do blood tests, and biopsy the tissue. Hopefully, we’ve caught it early; more testing will tell us. But … but you should know that most patients don’t report problems until the cancer has metastasized, which limits treatment options.”
Megan sighed. “Great, more tests and poking around just to narrow down how soon I will die.”
“We’ll do everything we can,” Dr. Marcum said.
“Thank you for that,” Ted whispered.
Afterward, the couple sat without speaking in their Subaru, the early September heat baking them slowly. Finally, Ted started the car and they drove home, taking the long way that skirted the coastline, the Pacific’s green waves breaking hard against the rocky shore.
“So what should I tell Kaylee?” Megan asked.
Ted chuckled. “She’s thirteen going on twenty-five. I think she can handle the truth.”
Megan sighed. “Yeah, she puts on a good act. But she’s still a little girl.”
“If you want, I can talk with her,” Ted offered.
“No, no. I’ll do it. She’s going to know that something’s wrong, especially if they recommend surgery. And then there’s the chemo and maybe even radiation.”
Ted ran his hands through his thinning hair and shivered. “I think we should wait until we know what we’re up against. After the tests we can tell Kaylee the whole truth.”
“Okay. But we can’t wait too long.”
*
The afternoon sun burned golden on the surface of the creek, just above the weir with its steelhead fish ladder. In the distance, the onslaught of Pacific breakers kept up a steady rumble. Megan and Kaylee sat on a bench shaded by a huge oak, taking a Saturday afternoon together, a break from schoolwork for the over-achieving girl, and a secret break from cancer for her mother.
Megan had grown thinner with dark circles under her eyes, testing finished and her first round of chemo scheduled for the following week. She stared at the three elegant male mallards that glided across the creek’s mirrored surface, chasing a lone female.
“I’ve something to tell you, Kaylee. But I don’t want to scare you.”
The girl turned to face her mother. “I think I already know.”
Megan’s eyes widened. “What do you know?”
“I found the test results of your scans and biopsy. You left them on the dining room table last week. I can read, you know. What I didn’t understand, I Googled.”
The two stared at each other. Kaylee’s lips trembled and tears filled her eyes.
“I’m sorry you had to find out that way. We were going to tell you but I wanted to make sure we had all the facts.”
“It’s not good, is it Mom?”
Megan sighed, admiring and at the same time resenting her daughter’s directness. “No, it’s not good.”
Kaylee came into her arms and they sat together in the warm shade, weeping silently. Megan remembered how, when Kaylee was a baby, she would strap her to her front and carry her everywhere, enjoying the warmth and pressure of the child’s body against her own.
“So what happens now?” Kaylee asked.
“Chemotherapy.”
“No … no surgery?”
“You know about surgery?”
Finally, they separated.
Kaylee frowned. “Yeah, people have a better chance of … of surviving it they remove the …”
Megan laid a hand on Kaylee’s arm. “It’s too late for surgery. The cancer has spread. The chemo might slow it down … but not stop it.”
“It’ll make you sick, right?”
“Yes … and I’ll probably lose my hair.” Megan grinned.
Kaylee seemed to ignore her mother’s last comment. She crossed her arms and rocked back and forth. “So … so you’re going to die?”
Damn, there’s that directness, probably gets it from me … and she seems angry, resentful. “Yes, Kaylee, I’m going to die.”
The words seemed to float out across the water into the dappled sunlight. The female mallard madly flapped her wings and flew upstream and out of sight, leaving the drakes alone and probably frustrated.
“But … but you can help me and your father. You will probably grow up faster than normal … and I’m sorry for that.”
“Mom, I’m 13 and I’ve already grown, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that.” Megan chuckled and clutched Kaylee to her.
“I’ll help, Mom. Just tell me what you want.”
“Well for one thing, I want you to study hard in school, make friends, and don’t become some crazy teenager like I was.”
“Sure, Mom.” Kaylee rolled her eyes, paused, and then managed a quiet smile.
*
Their dust-covered SUV bounced along the farm road toward the line of sycamores, oaks, and willows that bordered the creek. Megan winced with every bounce of the car but kept smiling. Over the past six weeks she and Kaylee had developed a bond stronger than before cancer. It took her daughter that long to shed her anger and sadness and come to accept her mother’s condition, well, almost.
“Mom, just what the heck were you thinking with that wig?” Kaylee reached over and tugged on a long curl of blonde hair. “Are you trying to look like Dove Cameron?”
“Who the heck is Dove Cameron?”
“Come on, Mom. Don’t you know anything?”
“Evidently not. I was actually going for Dolly Parton. Always wanted to try being a blonde with big hair. But your father likes … liked my dark hair.”
“My turn. Who the heck is Dolly Parton? Is she that old lady singer?”
“Yes, I suppose she is. But she still looks great.”
Megan pulled the car onto the road’s fringe and parked. A patch of waist-high fennel bordered a drainage ditch.
She turned toward Kaylee. “I think this is a good spot to check. Didn’t you say that the swallowtails like to lay their eggs on fennel plants?”
“Yeah, this place looks cool.”
“Let’s see if we can find some of their eggs, or better yet, the caterpillars.”
Kaylee grinned. “Sounds good. I’ll get the jars and the clippers.”
The two scrambled from the car, both eager to do something that had nothing to do with cancer.
Kaylee moved quickly through the fennel, checking each plant. “I found some, I found some,” she called.
Megan joined her and they stared at two plants where green caterpillars, with black, orange and light blue markings vigorously munched away on leaves, stalks, and fronds. The duo had struck butterfly gold.
Kaylee unscrewed the tops of two quart-sized Mason jars. Megan carefully harvested parts of the fennel plants that held four caterpillars, placed them in the jars and closed the lids that were perforated with holes to let in air.
“That was quick,” Megan said, breathing in deeply, the black licorice smell of the fennel strong in the afternoon heat.
“Yeah. We could take more. But four should be enough for my science project. Miss Jasperson doesn’t want us to disturb nature any more than we have to.”
Kaylee had come to her mother complaining about having no idea for what to do for her eighth-grade project. With coaching from Megan, Kaylee had chosen the raising of butterflies because, “The swallowtails are so beautiful and I won’t have to kill anything to complete it.”
Megan had nodded, feeling that enough death had stared down their family and that maybe studying butterflies could bring them some joy.
“You know, Mom, my friend Tiffany has a butterfly tattooed on her shoulder. It looks really cool.”
Megan scowled. “Did her parents let her do that? Don’t you even think about doing such a thing. Tattoos are forever and you don’t want to mess up your body so early, then regret it.”
“Like you did with that Chinese symbol on your butt.”
Megan chuckled. “Yes, just like that. Time and body changes can be cruel to tattoos.” For a moment she thought that it might be fun to get her own butterfly tattoo, to carry that experience with her daughter to the grave, and maybe beyond.
Before they left, Kaylee took multiple photographs of the fennel plants, some with swallowtail eggs, some with caterpillars. As a freelance graphic artist, Megan had agreed to help prepare display boards and a slide show for her daughter’s class presentation, with close-up photos of all stages of anise swallowtail development.
Returning home, Kaylee set the Mason jars on her partially-shaded bedroom windowsill. The caterpillars proved to be voracious and every few days mother and daughter harvested more fennel for the fattening wigglies to eat. Finally, the caterpillars formed hard chrysalises and began the internal change process of becoming butterflies. Megan felt like she too should curl up and form a shell around herself, pray for change that would allow her to fly, to leave this life as something beautiful.
*
Within a couple of days, all four of the caterpillars had pupated, forming camouflaged green and brown chrysalises.
“How long before they emerge as butterflies?” Megan asked Kaylee.
“I’m not sure … I think just a few days. And some might not make it.”
“That would be sad … to go to all that trouble and never live to fly.”
“Yeah. We just have to keep watch and hope.”
The mother and daughter went quiet and Megan knew that her daughter was preparing herself for a poor outcome. So was Megan.
After about ten days, Megan grabbed Kaylee the minute she returned home from school and hauled her to her bedroom. The two stared at the butterfly jars, grinning. Three yellow and black swallowtails had emerged from their chrysalises and slowly beat their wings to dry them.
“Come on. Grab your cell phone for photos,” Megan said. “We need to release them.”
They returned to the fennel patch and carefully removed the new butterflies from their jars. The insects worked their wings slowly in the Indian summer sunlight before taking off and flitting toward the trees.
“What happens now?” Megan asked.
“They will search for a mate and the females will then lay eggs on the fennel plants. Then everything starts over.”
“You’ve read all about the mating part?”
Kaylee grinned. “Oh yeah. Some male butterflies go through quite a courtship dance, and the actual mating act can last for hours.”
“Sounds something like humans, although I’m not sure about that ‘lasting hours’ part.”
“Mom!”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to embarrass you. So, how long do swallowtails live after mating?”
“Maybe a couple of weeks.”
Megan sucked in a deep breath and turned away from her daughter.
“You okay, Mom?”
“Yes … yes,” she said and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m just glad I’ve had thirteen years with you and more with your father.”
“So am I.”
The duo returned to the car. “So what should we do with the last chrysalis?” Megan asked.
“We’ll keep it. A butterfly could come out in a few days.”
“Oh I hope so, honey. I love to see them flying away.”
*
Days passed, and then weeks. Megan started a second round of chemo that weakened her even further. She spent her time sitting on the front porch trying to read, but mostly just staring at the hills that surrounded the town, hills that turned magically from gold to green after the first autumn rain.
Every day, while Kaylee was at school Megan checked the butterfly jar. Nothing changed and she had the sinking feeling that it never would. Finally, she and Kaylee decided to get rid of the chrysalis to avoid the daily reminder of its fate. After Kaylee left for school, Megan grabbed the jar and shuffled onto the front porch, heading for the car. But she couldn’t think of killing or ditching it, at least not then, the idea was too painful. She opened Keylee’s old toy box, slid the jar inside, and closed the lid, out of sight and hopefully out of her dreams.
The late fall and winter rains settled in, a cheerless time for Megan, with Keylee away at school and Ted at work. She tried contacting her commercial art clients to see if they had any jobs that might distract her from the pain and dark thoughts of the future. But the economy seemed to be stagnant and many of her clients were doing their own artwork using a variety of software tools.
The second round of chemo ended, leaving Megan mostly bedridden. Dr. Marcum didn’t recommend radiation. Ted had hired a home healthcare worker to help Megan take her medications, and to do light housework and provide transportation. Kaylee spent her after-school time doing the same. Winter came and went, the air warmed, the hills glowed greenly, almost like those in photographs of Ireland. The apple tree in their front yard started leafing out. Confined to bed or a wheelchair, Megan spent most of the day watching TV or sitting on the front porch and gazing at nothing in particular.
One afternoon, as she meditated, knowing her passing was near, Kaylee climbed the porch steps and sat on the bench next to her.
“How are you, Mom? You look … lost in some kind of dream.”
“I’m good. I’m good. Just glad to have time with you and your father.”
Kaylee gazed at the surrounding hills then down at the dust-covered toy box resting next to Megan.
“Mom, why’s this old thing still here? I haven’t played with toys since I was little.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” Megan cracked.
“Hey, I’m fourteen and I was six of seven then.”
“You’re right, that’s half your lifetime ago.”
Kaylee bent down to open the box. At that moment Megan remembered the discarded Mason jar and its unborn butterfly.
But Kaylee was too quick and had the box open and let out a squeal. “What’s this?”
The girl reached down and retrieved the butterfly jar. Inside it, a beautiful black and yellow anise swallowtail beat its wings slowly, trying to dry them before flight.
Megan sat forward in her wheelchair and stared, wide-eyed. “I … I put it there last October, couldn’t bring myself to kill it or just throw it away.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t. I can’t believe it lasted that long. Come on, let’s get the healthcare worker to drive us to the fennel patch and let it go.”
When they returned from their last butterfly release, Megan lay smiling in her room, gazing at the walls where Ted and Kaylee had pasted a cluster of swallowtails, cut from prints of digital photos taken for her daughter’s science project.
Kaylee entered and sat on the edge of the bed, excited. “I did some Internet research,” she began. “It seems that a change in light or maybe temperature can make some butterfly pupa go into hibernation, sort of like bears do in winter.”
“Really?”
“I think that’s what happened. It got cold or the light went away when you put the jar in the toy box … and it went to sleep.”
Megan sighed. “We were just lucky that we opened the box when we did.”
“I know, I know.” I’m going to tell my science teacher what happened. It’s so weird and really cool that they can hang out that long in their little shells.”
That evening, Megan lay in her hospital bed next to a snoring and exhausted Ted on his portable rollaway. She thought that her own hibernation of sorts was ending, that it was time to fly. The healthcare worker had given her a full dose of morphine to dull the sharp pain in her abdomen and back. In the dim glow of the nightlight, she stared at the swallowtails on the walls. They seemed to flutter and move in some sort of dance. She felt like she was one of them, having dried her wings, ready for the next stage as the royal purple night closed softly in.
*
“When were you going to tell me about those tattoos?” Erick asked, propping himself up in bed.
“Oh, during our honeymoon,” Kaylee said and laughed. “But neither of us could wait for that. Do you like them?”
“A whole flutter of butterflies across your beautiful shoulders … what’s not to like?”
“My mom got me interested in swallowtails when I was a young girl, got me interested in entomology and how strange and magical the lives of insects can be. And now, here I am with a PhD in Ent and teaching at the university, down the hall from you.”
“And here you are with me.”
“My mom would be happy.”
Swallow Tail Butterfly. From Public Domain
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been published by more than 480 different journals, magazines, and anthologies including Folio, Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.
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