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Nonfiction

Holding On

2 December 2024
Categories: Nonfiction

I see Linda when I push my grocery cart around the corner and into the next aisle. Her bulky blue sweater has flecks of gray, as does her dark brown hair. She’s browsing the yogurt. No, not browsing. She is stuck, staring, not seeing anything. Frozen in place, off somewhere—floating in emptiness, holding on as if in vertigo. Trying to do the things life requires but getting stuck along the way. I have been there, too, and I don’t know how to greet this fellow traveler.

I don’t know if I even want to.

After my son died, I could sense the discomfort when acquaintances ran into me somewhere. I looked like she does. The string that connected me to others was pulled tight, straining. They could sense the tautness, sense that my connection to them, to this world, was close to snapping. I could feel them trying to get away, pulling against the string like it was a leash. Talking to me would remind them that bad things can happen to people you know, that bad things can happen to you.

I stare too long and she catches me looking at her.

“Hi,” I say as I push my cart up next to hers. She tries a smile and says hi back.

I say, “I hated when people asked me how I was doing. But, how are you doing?”

My hand is on the cart’s handle and she rests hers on top of mine. The coldness of it surprises me. She looks down and says, it’s almost been a year.

“That’s when people think you are all better,” I say.

She tells me his birthday is coming up, the first without him. She tells me she has made him a cake every year since he was born. She looks past me and says that she hates shopping because she doesn’t want to have to talk to people.

I say, “One time I left behind a cart full of groceries because I saw someone I knew.”

I remember people asking how I was doing, but not really wanting to know. And people offered invitations to vague future get togethers. Get togethers that never materialized because neither of us wanted them. Here I am on the other side now, offering her the same meaningless words. I guess I do really want to know how she’s doing. But I also want to be away from her, to slide by without being seen.

She takes her hand off mine. Some people try to squeeze around us, and I realize we are blocking the aisle. Yet still we stand there, quiet.

Finally, I say, “We’d better get out of the way.”

She smiles and pushes her cart and we move forward slowly.

She tells me how she never expected everyone to remind her of him. People that don’t look like him might walk like him, she says, or stand like him, she says, or shrug, you know? Just shrug their shoulders in the way he used to. I don’t know what to do with that, she says. She turns to look directly at my face. I just nod.

I put my hand on top of hers for a moment then pull it back.

I used to see my son everywhere. It’s better now, more sporadic. Sometimes I feel guilty I’m not reminded of him always. It used to be any man with a ponytail would call him to mind. A skinny hippie kid picking out some oat milk would make me break down. One grocery store had an employee who looked exactly like Drew from a distance. I had to start shopping somewhere else. I remember once, for a brief second, I thought Drew was waiting for me at the end of an aisle. I forgot he was dead. When I remembered he was, all I could do was hold tight to the cart and turn toward a corner. I faced the corner and tried not to cry. I tried to be quiet. And I wished, as I had so many times before, that I could cut the cord that kept me here.

We say goodbye and go our different directions. As I’m walking away I say over my shoulder that we should get coffee sometime.  That I’m here if she needs me.

I continue my shopping, mindful of her, careful to be in a different aisle than she is, careful to stay away, careful to stay at a distance as I watch her drift through the store.

When my kids were little, I used to put Drew in charge of his younger brother. To keep them busy I’d send them off hunting different items. I’d say, you two are in charge of finding a jar of strawberry jam. And they would take off on a search through the store, eventually returning with it, ready for a new target. Drew knew what I was doing and was a smiling accomplice. I’m happy remembering this. And I’m happy that I can remember good things, and they can just be good, happy things—I don’t have to be scared of remembering anymore.

I watch Linda push her cart out the door and to her car. She pops her trunk, puts a bag in, and stands there for a long moment like she forgot what she was doing. I feel her loss in me. I can almost see the thin cord that connects her to the world. It’s pulled as far as it can go, straining to keep her here. I realize my tether has grown stronger. The frays have started to heal themselves, and I no longer feel a pull away from the world, but a force pulling me back into it. I’m holding tight to that string, pulling myself hand over hand back to safety.

I hope this happens for her, but I know it might not. There is so much out there waiting for us, hiding just out of sight, ready to clip those threads that keep us attached to one another. And I wish I could be there helping her mend her connection. But I don’t think I can because I know too well how fragile mine still is.

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Every Time She Moves

5 December 2023
Categories: Nonfiction

It’s my wife who makes the announcement. She says the word just as I turn a page in the book I’ve been hoping to read a good portion of on our quiet day at the beach.

“Nipple.”

She speaks low so only I can hear, says it matter-of-factly, the way some people say “cows” while driving by a pasture, and I assume she’s speaking of the woman to my left. The beach isn’t very crowded yet, despite the blue skies and sunny, eighty-two-degree weather. When she says it, I reply with just a nod and continue to read, for there’s a significant difference between looking out the window at a cow and looking at the exposed nipple of a woman I don’t even know.

Fifteen minutes earlier, we’d picked our spot on the hard-packed sand just north of the pier on Tybee Island, unfurled our beach mat, staked the corners, spread our towels, and settled in about twenty feet away from the next couple over.

The woman—late twenties, in an olive-green two-piece, with her light brown hair secured in a messy top bun and flowering vines tattooed up and across one thigh—sat quietly, scrolling through her phone as her boyfriend played an intense, seemingly high-stakes game of solo paddleball. He was maybe a few years younger than her, with a trim, wiry build, light blue board shorts, and, of course, that backwards, flat-brimmed baseball cap that would leave a ridiculous tan line across his forehead had he not already a solid tan to begin with.

He tapped the ball high into the air, spun in a full circle, then tapped it successfully again. “Yo, check it out,” he said, with the energy and excitement of a five-year-old. Then he pulled off the spinning move a third time. She flashed a smile, feigning interest, and continued to scroll. He pleaded with her to play along, and after a few minutes, she reluctantly tucked her phone under a towel, grabbed the second paddle, and joined him in swatting the ball back and forth.

“There it is again,” my wife says, a few moments after her initial announcement. “Every time she moves, it pops out.”

I’m curious, but I don’t know how much attention my wife has drawn in our direction, and I have no desire to be caught looking. Yet, I somehow feel I’m being instructed to at least survey the situation. I turn my head, first right, counterfeiting a neck stretch as casually as possible, then left to catch a glimpse of the scene during the inevitable counter stretch. I see nothing. Nothing unordinary, that is. The boyfriend continues to jump around, practically diving for the ball even when hit directly at him, and the woman is just a normal looking woman looking normal on the beach, putting up with the childish antics of the man she’s chosen to spend her life with, or at least her day in the sun. She’s tugging at her suit top, which I realize doesn’t fit her quite right—maybe she’s lost a little weight recently, I think to myself, or gained a little and moved a size up; I don’t know, and I really don’t care—but she seems to have things under control. I assume my wife has hyperbolized the situation and turn back to my book without comment, leaving the couple to their own devices.

A few minutes later their game intensifies, becoming more difficult to ignore. I hear the woman’s footsteps padding heavily in our direction and look up to see her reaching for an errant volley. She stumbles; her top shifts to one side; and the pink crescent emerges. When she catches her footing and straightens back up, the top betrays her completely.

“See what I mean?” my wife says. She’s been watching this whole time, not only them, but me as well, waiting for my reaction.

“I did,” I say, not really sure where to take this.

The boyfriend picks up the ball and rattles off some nonsense about a club he wants to go to later that night. Across from him, the woman stands, listening, paddle dangling from one hand, the other hand resting on her hip, apparently unaware of her current exposure.

“What an asshole,” my wife says. “He’s looking right at her. She has no idea, and he’s not saying a word.” She leans in my direction and tips her head forward, sliding her sunglasses down just enough so she can peer over the top and look me straight in the eye. “If you ever did that to me, that would be the end of us.”

I nod in agreement, turning back to my book. If I had anything remotely in common with this boyfriend, if there were a single moment in our relationship that this incident resembled, I’d have taken her warning to heart.

Later that night, we get changed and head out for dinner, one last chance for some local Georgian fare before we fly back home to New England the following day. At a red light, I turn to look at my wife and notice a fleck of mascara resting on her cheekbone. Part of me would like to tell you I say, “nipple,” and she suddenly knows to check herself in the mirror, that it becomes our code word for such an occasion, and that we laugh and laugh each time one of us says it to the other. But no, we don’t decide to make a long-running inside joke about that poor woman whose boyfriend was an even worse fit for her than that bathing suit top. I simply let her know about the fleck. She thanks me and fixes it before it becomes an issue, before it gets smudged across her face or falls on her dress, ruining an otherwise lovely evening. I think back to that couple at the beach, hoping the woman has given herself a good once over before they go to that club, for if anything is out of place, she is surely on her own. I take my wife by the hand, and as the light turns green, we drive into the night.

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Brief Diary of an Instacart Delivery Driver

5 December 2023
Categories: Nonfiction, S.C. Creative Sociology Writing Competition

 
March 10th, 2022

Five-star rating

Batch complete!

Tip: $10

Though the grocery store was crowded the shelves were stocked making for a swift batch delivery.

 

March 13th, 2022:

Substitution request for Stock Cold Brew Coffee to switch with Chameleon Organic, Handcrafted, Cold-Brew, Super Concentrate, Black Coffee

Four-star rating

Batch Complete

Tip: $5.40

 

April 2nd, 2022:

Substitution request for “Primal kitchen mustard” to switch with

Substitution request for Vital Farms Pasture Raised Large Grade A Eggs” to switch with “Cage Free Brown Eggs”

All other items fulfilled

Batch complete!

Tip: $4.11

I sat in my car in the middle of my Spring semester in between classes, and in between jobs. It was a hot summer in the south, and I was cranky that finding for substitutions and of course waiting for the client’s “go ahead” ate up more time than I thought. This was a slow day, not a bad one. However, my substitutions earned me a 4-star review instead of the 5’s that I was used to.

“Tip: $4.11” The minimum. I frowned.

 

May 19th, 2023

Processing refund for “Dave’s Killer Sourdough bread”

Substitution request for “Arnold Oatnut Bread – 24oz”
Processing refund for “Arnold Oatnut Bread – 24oz”
Message to client: Good afternoon, ma’am would like a picture of the bread shelf? There is a limited in-store selection today.

Processing refund for “Crackers”

Processing refund for “Eggs”

Processing refund for “Oatmeal”

Processing refund for “Tyson’s Chicken tenders”

Batch complete!

The app almost seems passive aggressive when it says, “Batch Complete” and I find myself rolling my eyes. It was almost a convention of “proxy shoppers” crowded around the bread aisle. I was surprised by how diverse the bunch was, many of them were far older than me. One old man stuck to me, he had white hair and was walking with a cane. He leaned on his grocery cart heavily and had his eyes clued to the top shelf. “Same brand different flavor. Meh!”. He hobbled away; I wonder how long it takes for him to drop off a large grocery haul on someone’s porch. I grew concerned at the thought of him delivering to an apartment on the second floor.

Today I received no tip, but the lady was nice and was ready to receive what food I could salvage from Kroger. There have been notable shortages of staples like bread, coffee, chicken, and eggs. I find myself blaming the stores for not restocking, but I’m starting to see news reports of contamination and food recalls.

 

Jan 12th, 2023

Processing refund for “Eggs”

Processing refund for “chicken”

Processing refund for “Carton egg whites”

Processing refund for “Similac Baby formula”

Processing refund… for (5 more items)

Batch complete!

The list went on. I was only able to complete this batch 1/3 of a way through. I didn’t expect a tip, I just felt bad that the store was bare. I drove to the north side of town towards a small studio apartment with a freshly swept porch. The delivery instructions told me not to ring the doorbell. As I sat the bags down onto her “Merry Christmas” welcome mat, I heard the customer’s baby crying. I felt guilty, there were no substitutes for the formula in the store.

After my delivery, my social media feed coincidentally flooded with news reports of parents trying to order formula from Canada because there are shortages in US stores.

I didn’t want a tip, I just wondered how this baby was going to eat.

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Last active Jan 12th, 2023.

 
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Exegesis: Climate Change and the Food System
 
One of the most inconvenient potential effects of climate change is how the environmental shifts affect crops domestically and globally. This domino effects into many issues, one of which is a limited selection at grocery stores. The potential foods that run the risk of being harder to obtain due to price or unavailability are spices, corn, and soybeans which make up most ingredients in consumers’ everyday purchases. This past year alone stores and consumers have endured recalls, then price surges on eggs, and more alarmingly baby formula. People incorrectly assume that climate change or “global warming” is a once occurring dramatic heatwave. A more accurate description of climate change is extreme, unpredictable, and prolonged weather patterns. These polarizing temperatures mean that farmers must now deal with drastic warm and cold fronts ultimately leading to partial crop yields. Meanwhile, consumers and “proxy-shoppers” are picking over near bare shelves and dealing with more frequent recalls for contaminated products. Though the temperature is on the uptick, there are certain actions that people can take to manage the symptoms of climate change. These solutions include keeping corporations in check regarding their emissions, advocating for FDA funding, and scrutinizing policies that allow lobbying in the food industry. If this issue is not resolved, stock up pantries and become more self-reliant as grocery prices may begin to increase more than what is currently being witnessed. 

A Very Matsu Christmas 

30 November 2022
Categories: Nonfiction

It was Christmas again. I have always told people I liked to spend Christmas alone, but that wasn’t entirely true. In years past, I’ve spent it with friends and family. But these weren’t the years I was referring to when I spoke of celebrating solo. While everyone traveled home, I opted to stay behind. It was easy to use various excuses like I couldn’t get time off work, money was too tight to travel, someone had to feed the cat, etc. None of these reasons were binding; they were exactly what they were called — little ways to politely excuse myself from attending the holiday hoopla that everyone was so hell-bent on participating in.  

New York City: the most magical place to spend the holidays. Fifth Avenue window displays compete to outdo one another, a claustrophobic visit with Santa Claus at Macy’s, or the swarming crowds surrounding the tree at Rockefeller Center mark the holidays in Manhattan.  These mass appeals didn’t hold any magic for me. But what I did like was that in a city that never sleeps, not everyone celebrates.  

The first year of staying behind started as some sort of way to feel sorry for myself. Alone on Christmas. A choice of my own making. Still, it was something to be sad about. I put on my boots to set out for snacks and booze, walking along the snow-scraped, empty Avenues in peace. It was perfectly quiet while storefronts were gated up for the evening. The lampposts were adorned with white lights wrapped in red and green tinsel. I approached the liquor store stopping short. Lights encased me. The windows welcoming me in were housing a sushi bar. I recognized it from previous commutes to the train. Or maybe, I had even ordered delivery from it? One couple ate by the window. A magnificent boat filled with sushi and sashimi was docked on the table between them.  

The door jingled as I walked in and a host greeted me with her eyes while taking an order over the phone. I scanned the room, gestured toward the sushi bar, and she smiled and nodded. Seating myself, I looked at the chilled fish displayed behind the glass. Moments later the chef greeted me from behind the bar. He looked happy to see me while he handed me a menu. I ordered a plum wine and some safe sushi rolls I was familiar with. The host brought my wine while I scrolled on my phone aimlessly. A fruit fly buzzed around my glass and I brushed it away. Even in December these fuckers are relentless, I thought.  

Feeling the chef’s presence in front of me while he worked, I looked up. He wore a double-breasted, white jacket and matching hat, seeming so much taller than me from behind the counter. 

“Do you like eel?” he asked. I had already ordered so I was a bit caught off guard.  

“Sure,” I said while taking a swig of my plum wine. He just nodded and returned to whatever magic he was creating on the other side of the bar. I watched for some time through the glass until he set down a bowl in front of me.  

“Complementary seaweed and eel salad,” he explained while setting me up with soy sauce and chopsticks. 

I exclaimed, “Oh! Thank you so much!” His generosity surprised me. I gingerly picked up my chopsticks and tried a bite. The sauce was a bit sweet and the eel had a light smoky flavor to it. He watched as I continued to struggle with my chopsticks but I pretended not to notice.  

When my rolls came, I ordered another glass of wine and settled in. I felt good. Like this is where I was supposed to be at that very moment. After mixing some wasabi with my soy sauce, I dipped my crab roll into it. Once I had heard that you weren’t supposed to eat sushi in that manner but I had already committed. I looked at the chef and he smiled. No offense was taken.  

Suddenly, I was jolted out of the moment by the bells hanging on the front door. I watched the other patrons exit the restaurant. Their existence was a shock back to reality to me. Glancing at my phone, I saw that it was a quarter past nine. Moments later the host stopped by to check on me. I graciously thanked her and told her everything was fantastic, giving her my card to close my tab even as I finished my last roll. Being from the Industry it makes your skin crawl to think that you were the last person in a restaurant and staff would be waiting on you to leave so they can leave. 

When she returned with my check in hand, the chef said something to her – in Japanese, I think – and she responded in kind. He gestured for her to sit and she did — right next to me in fact. He returned with a glass of plum wine for her and for himself, then invited me to cheers.  

“Kanpai!” they said in unison while clinking glasses with me. 

As I finished my last roll, the host and I casually chatted about life, the most memorable being our cats. We both showed each other photos and cooed over how cute they were.  

“Do you like Japanese Whiskey?” the chef interjected. 

“Sure.” I lied. It was a small lie, but a lie nonetheless. I never really fancied myself a whiskey gal. But thought it would be rude to decline. Plus, it was free booze. He pulled a bottle of Suntory whiskey from behind the raw bar and poured us three small glasses as he explained it was his Christmas present for himself, and he would be happy to share some with us. We enjoyed our small talk and sipped our drinks until I finally wished them a good night. I walked home in the cold feeling quite warm — from the whiskey and company I assumed.  

The next four years played out in a similar fashion. Every 25th of December I’d arrive at this sparsely occupied and familiar scene. Seating myself in the usual spot, the chef never looked surprised to see me back, just welcoming and hospitable. Always offering me a new dish to try while truly expanding my knowledge and comfort zone in the realm of raw.  And this year it was uni the chef had me try. 

“What is it?” I asked. Pointing at the two orangish-looking tongues in front of me.  

“Sea urchin,” he replied. “The insides.” 

 “Thank you,” I gave a hesitant smile and picked up my chopsticks. Inspecting the first piece, the orange squish was draped over a perfectly oval bed of rice. I thought better of drowning it in the soy sauce this time and consumed it au neutral. It was a bit briny, and for a lack of better words, it tasted like the ocean. Really, the favor took a back seat to the texture. The “mouth feel” was like a seafood-buttered-cream over rice. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t hate it. And I gladly consumed the second piece while still trying to figure out what I was even eating. The food and drinks were a comfort to me. Everything was the same: the no-nonsense tables and chairs aligning the windows to the street; the curtains that covered the entrance to the kitchen; the books and trinkets that decorated the wall behind the raw bar. I never dine here on any other day of the year. It wasn’t my usual spot or anything. It was just the place I now came to every year for Christmas. 

After dinner, the chef offered me some of his homemade sakè. It was his mother’s recipe he told me. At that moment I realized I have never asked him for his name. Not in all four years, I’ve come here. Nor did he ever ask for mine.  

“Can I ask you something?” I murmured, my own words surprising me. 

“Sure,” the chef replied.  

“How come you’ve never asked me why I always come here alone on Christmas?” The words floated into the air like the smoke from a blown-out candle (waving and overwhelming until it quickly disappears). It was never something I intended to ask because frankly, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to hear an answer. But there they were, my words, wafting from my side of the bar to his. The chef never broke eye contact with me. It felt like it had been so long since I asked the question, so I thought maybe I should say something else. My mind bounced around looking for a way out. 

“Because you’re not alone.” He finally said, shrugging his shoulders slightly and turning away from me returning to the next order of business.  

 

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A Few Feet Away

30 November 2022
Categories: Nonfiction

My sister and I stand side-by-side on the rocky beach. Below us the clear water of Garrett Bay gathers speed, crashing to the shore, splashing surf over the wooden boat ramp.

Blending with the Michigan horizon, the sky–gray and fuzzy– solidifies in memory. We amble our way down the lakefront, trespassing onto private property. The wind picks up her hair and holds it behind her, a veil. I follow the procession. My foot slips between jagged rocks on the sandless beach, but I remain in balance. A few pieces of field grass break through the hard pieces of earth, wedging themselves against stone. We’re here, they say.

Rachel points slightly north, and I nod. I remember.

“They’re still here, you know. The water ghosts,” she says.

The spirits were born years earlier. We were in our father’s boat, kneeling in the bow on triangular cushions that always stuck to the back of our legs, clinging with sweat.

The sky that day was ominous. A line of darkness divided it into opposite halves: above and below, before and after. For some reason we meandered to the dock, wanting the memory to stay alive forever, and our creations came to be. Their ethereal forms would be marooned to the shapeless depths of the Green Bay forever.

“Let’s look for sunken treasure,” Rachel said all those summers ago as we scanned beneath the surface. The motor behind us muffled our parents’ discussion. We were at the point of childhood when imagination begins to dry, but that day we splashed our visions, grasping, cupping the liquid of them one more time. Two girls, their heads still wet from Ellison Bay Beach, leaned over the bow, searching the shallows. Dried sand tickled my toes, but I didn’t dare pull my attention from the water as it slapped the starboard below.

“There!” I said, pointing. “It looks like a ladder. Something’s there.” Wooden planks lay on the sandy floor. The water was clear enough to see perfectly through its depths. Rachel’s fingers made three lines on the surface, but immediately, she pulled them back. The shipwreck’s corpse, its poles and their shadows, darkened with our awareness of their presence.

“I see it! It’s a ship! What’s left of one. Wonder if someone died here.”

“Possible,” I said. “We’re so close to Death’s Door. Maybe they got lost in a fog trying to cross through to Lake Michigan.”

More of the wreckage revealed itself as we circled around. The carcass looked like a fish skeleton, large and looming. Lines for bones and beams crossed each other and connected at sharp angles. The hull’s edge grimaced with sharp teeth, staring up at us from the depths. How many feet? we both wondered, but neither of us spoke for waves of time.

“Water ghosts,” she whispered. I felt them then and realized their presence.  The boulders at the water’s edge, the shot rock, the rubble seemed to acknowledge the existence of spirits, their realness.

“We can’t swim here. They’ll grab our legs because we still walk the earth’s surface.”

When she spoke, I felt the first cold drop. It landed on my arm, lowering my temperature, and I was thankful for the weighty warmth of my life jacket.  Rain began to hit the lake. Violent punches. Vertical lines of rain closed the memory.

We watch for our former selves out there.  We want to see the ghosts of who we were when we discovered the schooner Fleetwing.

“Let’s walk out there,” I say. I enjoy getting a reaction out of her. But Rachel doesn’t respond. She gives me a look, telling me she doesn’t find my ironic suggestion humorous. So I kick off a shoe, continuing my performance. I am not laughing and neither is she. Waiting for her to call my bluff, I let my other sandal fall between the sharp concrete angles of white stones, those celestial boulders. She rolls her eyes, and that is enough of a dare. It is the extra encouragement I need.

“You’re not really doing that!” she calls when my toes first touch the icy water.  The waves, frigid and hungry for land, splash my knees and bite with rawness.  It must have always been this cold, even in June. Either time erased that detail or our tolerance had waned. Probably both, I think as I wade further out. Probably both. It should be both of us.

“Come on! Do this with me,” I shout over my shoulder, my eyes focused on my footpath, green and magnified under the water. I want to turn around and face my sister on the shore, to see her expression as I move closer to our dreaded history. But I don’t.  Instead, I simply keep going. I hadn’t really planned on swimming out there. I only wanted to put my feet in the water and frighten her, a childish habit.

Once I become acclimated to the temperature, the heaviness around me – the slippery, mossy, sandy floor – it calms me. It doesn’t feel as if angry arms are waiting, wanting to steal my legs for their own extensions. But I am aware that the vessel and its double masts lay only a few meters deep. The only other time I had been this close to the wreckage remains decades in the past when we floated over it.

The shift from walking to treading is both gradual and sudden. The constant movement, the up and down stirring makes it impossible to see what resides beneath my weightless feet. My shadows must overlap the warping ship. I imagine myself as an angel to spirits below, floating, hovering slowly with nowhere else to be.

“You’re a water ghost,” she says, her long hair trailing in a silky line behind her.  It reaches for the shore as she lowers herself and swims slowly into deeper water. She follows me, staying only a few feet away for the entire journey.

“No,” I say. “We both are.”

Fishing Vessel Odyssey

30 November 2022
Categories: Nonfiction

Side by side in the old Ford F150, past the badlands of South Dakota and mustard fields of Alberta, we finally reached the Alaskan island of Ketchikan. Dave and I followed an abandoned logging road into a high forest, and found a perfect spot to set up camp beside the truck. Fat orange slugs slimed up our boots and the air was dense with a fog that never lifted. The scenery was stunning – sharp mountains rushing down to a restless sea – but rarely visible through the slurry of water that hung in the sky.

“It’s time to hit the docks,” I declared.  

 It was late June, the season for pinks and silvers was starting, and the captains needed crew. I had researched all this ahead of time back at our college near Philadelphia. We were poised to enter senior year, and life was wide open, gaping, beckoning. It was my dream to work a season on a salmon fishing boat and I’d convinced my boyfriend to come along. 

“You don’t want to go for some hikes first?” he said.  

We were still in our sleeping bags, which we’d zipped together so we could snuggle all night. A classic pair of opposites – I was the nerdy Boston Jew and Dave the self-taught mechanic raised on an Indiana tobacco farm. We’d been dating for a year, been friends for three, and were endlessly curious about each other’s bodies, minds, pasts.  

“No.” I said firmly. “I don’t want to miss our chance.” 

I extracted myself from the tent and stretched my arms up to the dewy branches. Dave followed me out after a moment and I handed him his toothbrush, then latched the gear bin. 

Half an hour later down on the docks, a goldmine of boats bobbed hopefully in their slips. My eyes thrilled over the scene – men in orange rainproof overalls called Grundens shaking nets and coiling seaweed-coated line. Other men holding cigarettes in one hand and paint brushes in the other. Seagulls swooned and the harbor water lapped playfully on the pilings. I stood beside Dave at the top of the gangway, smelling diesel mixed with brine, and squeezed his hand. The scene was like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book; every boat held irresistible promise. I felt intoxicated, immortal, and wanted to live them all. 

I turned to take in Dave’s face, which appeared incongruously grim.  

“What’s the matter, babe?” 

“Indiana is a landlocked state,” he replied, glancing out at the long horizon of ocean. “The only boat I’ve ever been on besides the ferry over here is Barry’s rowboat and we barely made it off the banks of the Ohio River. I don’t think I’m a boat person after all.” 

“Are you kidding me? You’re figuring this out now?!” 

I searched Dave’s slender face, his shock of white blonde hair that fell in the center of his forehead, that he swiped back when he got nervous like this.  

“But these boats have engines, Dave. You love engines.” 

My body leaned toward the sea, and all I wanted was to be set adrift. I was like the figurehead on a clipper ship, face to the waves. It didn’t occur to me to empathize with Dave at that moment, or even to take his hesitation seriously. On some level I knew he would go along with me no matter how uncomfortable he felt. That was the way our relationship worked – I had the ideas, and Dave helped make them happen. This didn’t feel wrong to me. It felt like we each had our role to play and we needed each other snugly. I told him I loved him, and coaxed him along. Together we walked down the ramp to the boats. 

At least Dave was wearing the right clothes – Carhartts and a t-shirt. I was not. I did not own work clothes because I had never done manual labor aside from spraying my parents’ rose garden. So far in life my resume consisted of babysitter, writing tutor, and receptionist at my father’s psychiatry office. I wore khaki shorts and a tank top with spaghetti straps, and my body felt soft underneath.  

We approached fisherman after fisherman.  

“Hi there! We’re looking for work as crew; could you use any extra hands?” 

Nobody seemed glad to talk to us. They had all hired their nephews and neighbors already.  

“Where you from?” they wanted to know.  

“Who sent you down here?” 

“You know Larry? No? Never mind.” 

It’s because I don’t look believable, I thought. I look weaker than I am. Maybe Dave should take the lead; he speaks their language more. But if anything, I sensed that Dave was relieved by the rejection. 

At the end of the morning, we got lucky. Bruce Wallace, a burly man in his fifties with a red Santa nose, stepped off his vessel the Odyssey heading for lunch and got a twinkle in his eye when he heard our story.  

“I can only take one of you,” he told us, “but I’ve got a friend who’ll probably take the other of you. I need a cook.” 

He looked at me. The girl. 

I didn’t think we’d get another offer. I wanted this to happen so badly. 

“Yes,” I said.  

I looked at Dave. He nodded. 

 “Don’t get relegated to the kitchen,” my friend wrote back in an email that I read in the town library later that week before we left for the fishing grounds at Kendrick Bay. I was supposed to be shopping on a budget for the boat’s groceries for the month. The crew of five required four square meals in twenty-four hours, with red meat always on the menu. We sometimes would be fishing around the clock, so coffee had to be a steady drip. I had no clue how to make roast beef, or even operate a coffee maker. I was frantically copying recipes from cookbooks, and calling my mom from a payphone.  

“Ok, honey, so you tie the string around the roast four to five times, then oil it and season it.”  

“I don’t get it, Mom. Do I tie knots in the string? When do I cut the string off?” 

She never called me “honey” at home. She sounded so far away.  

“And what kind of string do I use? Just like normal string?” 

“I use butcher’s string, honey.” 

“Mom. I doubt they sell butcher’s string at the market in Ketchikan.” 

I felt lost. Dave had in fact been hired on the spot by Bruce’s buddy Phil. We should have been on a boat together. This wasn’t the plan, and I struggled to find a way to feel good about how it turned out. I missed Dave and felt less brave without him. Plus he was a better cook than I was by far. 

Our captains were an odd pair – the jocular Bruce was offset by a sullen quality in Phil that I didn’t quite understand or trust. Phil made Dave a deckhand on the Lone Wolf and I burned with the gender injustice. He got to operate the enormous crane that lowered the purse seine net into the water, then lifted it back up full of fish. It is called a purse because it’s shaped like a sack with a drawstring closure. The trick is to cast the huge heavy net far enough behind the fish so they don’t spook, but near enough to close in on them and cinch the net tight around them. I had also read about this on my computer in my dorm room, and it was exhilarating to see it in action. 

We saw each other every couple of days when Bruce and Phil rafted up their boats to lend a tool, get a radio battery, or appraise the forecast. I would see the looming maroon hulk of the Lone Wolf blast through a shroud of fog and come into a spot of sunlight. It was almost unbelievable to see humble old Dave transported to the stern of a fifty-eight foot fishing vessel, grinning steadily from below the brim of a rain hat.  

What I couldn’t tell was if the grin was real. Without any privacy to talk, without even being able to touch each other, I had to take on faith that Dave was faring okay at sea. If anything, seeing him respond to an order from Phil and step away from the edge of the deck where he could holler to me deepened my own resolve to immerse myself in learning to cook for the Odyssey crew. Occasionally we came in contact with other boats as well but I never saw another woman out there. I hadn’t realized how disorienting this would be. I felt I had much to prove, although whether I was proving it to the crew, to Dave, or to myself I wasn’t sure. 

The mates on board consisted of three friends in their late twenties from Bellingham, Washington who had fished together before but never for Bruce. First mate was Marty. He was tall, serious, and married, and had an intimidating smile, like a shark. He slept with a gun, “to be on the safe side.” This did not feel safe to me at all and it was not until several nights had passed by without incident that I began to relax. Then came the day Marty spied an orca off the starboard side and ran to get his gun to fire at it.  

“How could you do such a thing?” I cried. 

“How could you not?” he gleamed. “What a shot that would be!” 

“But it’s illegal. And cruel!” 

“And fun!” he replied. 

Second mate was Bill. Bill was heavyset, wide-eyed, and a willing worker. He talked to me the most, constantly bewildered about how I got there.  

“What’s a girl like you doing on a salmon fishing boat?” He kept shaking his head. “What’s that you’re always writing in, are you writing a book?” 

“It’s my journal,” I told him.  

“A journal? You mean like a diary?” 

I nodded, just as confused as he was about his confusion.  

“What, are you taking notes for a movie or something? Are you a reporter?” He wasn’t aggressive in his suspicion, and he wasn’t teasing me either. We honestly peered at each other from different worlds. 

“No,” I tried to explain. “It’s just for myself.” 

The one I related to best was Nate, the deckhand. Right away he confessed he was a recovering drunk and had lost his girlfriend because of it. He came fishing to get over her, but it didn’t seem to be working. Daily he would ask me for advice about girls, about how to win her back. I didn’t think I had any special insight to the mind of this ex based solely on being female, but I appreciated that he listened to what I said. 

“Maybe just explain how you’re feeling,” I ventured. “Let her know how hard you’re trying.” 

Bruce remained a good-natured captain and, in his free moments, entertained my curiosity about navigation, fishing regulations, and the life cycles of salmon. Gradually, he led me up from the galley and introduced me to the vessel’s machinery.  

*** 

By week three I had not only perfected the coffee maker but I had successfully convinced the crew to add salmon to their menu in addition to pork and beef. I slathered teriyaki sauce on salmon, mayonnaise and dried dill on salmon, lemon and olive oil on salmon, and flaked it into fried rice for breakfast. After all, we were catching so many of the majestic fish, it only seemed appropriate to consume a few. Salmon slapped down on the deck in regular salty hailstorms every time we pulled the seine net up through the tall crane, along with the purple jellyfish whose sting was merciless. After the first sting swelled my left eye closed for over a day, I began to borrow Bruce’s goggles. 

In my brown waterproof boots, locally called Ketchikan tennis shoes, I learned to kick the salmon quickly into their icy hold before they piled up too high and slid off the deck back into the sea. But not so hard a kick that they would lose a fin or start to bleed. I was good at it and fast, and I was also adept at the knot Bruce taught me to repair the net when it tore. I could visualize how many diamonds of twine needed to be recreated to fill the hole and keep the netting even.  

Meals got tougher to plan as we approached the end of the month and our groceries dwindled. I was looking forward to the trip to land to resupply. We hadn’t seen the Lone Wolf for over a week and though the time had gone fast, I was longing to see Dave. I was hoping they’d be at anchor and I could pick him up in the dinghy and we could take a walk together on the trail leading out from town. I couldn’t wait to exchange descriptions of how things worked on our boats – the crew dynamics, the sleeping arrangements, the meals, the process of hauling in a bonanza of salmon.  

It was a Friday when we reached the cannery and unloaded our cache of fish. Bruce was going home to see his wife and teenage kids, and the crew had the weekend free to replenish our energy for the next month at sea. I wandered down the boardwalk to the library. I wanted to check my email and send a blitz of triumphant emails back detailing my adventure. I was basking in the unusually clear, vibrant day on the island, gazing up at the glaciers decorating the necks of the mountains like lace collars. So I was completely taken aback to recognize Dave’s voice beside me on the street, from behind a wad of tourists.  

“Yes, that plant is called Bear’s Toilet Paper,” I heard him say in a false but still familiar way. “Grizzlies like to use it because it’s flat and tough.” 

Several kid voices at the front of the crowd piped up together and I couldn’t hear their questions. But I had locked eyes with Dave. He gave me his sheepish smile and raised a finger for a sign to wait a minute. Then he glanced up the road I’d just walked along to the cannery, and checked his watch. 

“Folks,” he nearly shouted. “My colleague will be meeting you in five minutes under the flag outside the cannery for that portion of the tour. Feel free to use this time to have a snack, use the public restrooms….”  

Then he turned his back on the group and galloped over to where I was leaning against a cedar tree. Our hug was like a free fall. Back to safety, back to being known. 

“You’re here!” he said finally, breathless. “I watched for the Odyssey every day.” 

“What do you mean? How long have you been on land?” 

“I quit fishing, babe. I’m so sorry. I was seasick and miserable. Turns out Phil was legally blind, and had no idea what was coming, fish or weather or anything. So many parts of the boat were broken, and I never had time to fix them, and nobody wanted to hear it. I quit right after I saw you the last time. I’m so sorry.” 

It didn’t make sense, this ending to the story. We had made it all the way! We were hardcore and resilient! I had put so much pressure on myself to adjust to life on the boat. I had pushed past loneliness, exhaustion, all the fears and discomforts of being a woman on a boat with four men. I had finally hit my stride – and Dave had been living in town all these days that I had been hustling in the galley, bracing pots against the lurch of swells?  

“Oh.” I said. “Oh no. That sounds awful.”  

My words sounded like they were being translated from a foreign language. I felt let down, confused. Had my spirit of adventure been simply trying to fulfill an expectation I held for us as a couple? Was I still free, attached to someone who wanted something different? 

“So…now what? Were you leading a tour group or something?” I tried to sound normal. I looked at Dave’s calloused hands, the way his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. His lanky shape was so familiar to me, so worn by love, it felt almost used up. 

“You wouldn’t believe it but the woman who picked me up as I was hitchhiking back to where we left the truck offered me a job! She runs this new agency called Ketchikan Adventure Vue. I know, it’s cheesy. But she’s really nice. Her name is Valerie.” 

“Babe. Did she tell you to say that lame thing about the Grizzly Bear Toilet Paper?”  

“Um, yeah? It pays decent though, and some people hand me ridiculous tips. I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait to see you. But now you’re here!”  

He leaned in for another hug, but our arms both went up instead of locking together and we bumbled it. But Dave rushed on: 

“You’re here now and I love you and I’m sorry and now we can go home.” 

*** 

The memory of quitting is what haunts me most. When I called my mom from that same payphone, I remember her concern. 

“You’re sure you want to quit, honey? You don’t have to quit just because Dave did.” 

“I already decided, Mom. We’re leaving.” 

“I just want you to know you have the choice.” 

“You already said that. I heard you.” 

Her hesitation bothered me because it spoke to my pride, my feminism, and it was all the more powerful because she had worried so much about me going out there in the first place. The way I justified it to myself was by saying that if Dave’s and my positions were reversed, I would want him to come home with me. Those were the gender roles I was resisting – the timid girl tamps down the boy’s galivanting spirit – but I felt chastened for pushing too far and disregarding Dave’s plight. And I told myself that even if I was having qualms about it, I was being a strong partner and doing the right thing for my relationship. 

The hard part to understand, then, is how our relationship buckled under the weight of that decision and afterwards was never quite the same. We climbed in the old Ford and rolled home through different states than we’d visited on our way out, stopping in Montana to visit a friend of ours. When we arrived in Indiana, I said my parents wanted to see me a bit before the fall semester started up, and saying goodbye to him wasn’t all that hard.  

I went back to the Odyssey right away after I’d found Dave that Friday afternoon leading tours, and Bruce hadn’t left the boat yet. I told him in a roundabout way what happened with Dave, leaving out the details about Phil. Bruce gave me a long look straight in my eyes while he listened. Then he let me go. 

“Ye-ahp. I had a feeling things were going to turn out that way. I know I took a chance on you.”  

The guilt that lodged in my stomach as he said that never fully went away. I knew he’d be hard pressed to replace his cook so late in the game. I imagined Bill making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everyone at lunch. I offered to at least restock the groceries, but he tossed his head and said his wife would see to it.  

“Get going on home. I’ll mail your check when we settle up,” he said. “You’ve got a life to get back to, I imagine.” 

Swimmers

1 December 2021
Categories: Nonfiction

Earl leaves a message I don’t get for some reason until the next day. He starts off by clearing his throat and says, “It’s Earl who lives across from your cul-de-sac and I’ve washed your container, the one you brought that soup in, and it’s waiting for you here. Just come on over and we’ll chit chat.”

He says that twice with the suggestion that if I come visit, I’ll get my container back. I hang up my phone and laugh thinking that my Tupperware is now in a hostage situation.

When I get there, his front room is the same as always except for a gaggle of deflated balloons dangling from the mantle. Another balloon, wrinkled and barely upright, is bright red and in the shape of the number 90. We missed his birthday, but I tried to make up for it by bringing the soup and homemade bread when Mary, down the street, called and said his cracked rib and pain meds mean he has no appetite, and we need to encourage him to eat.

But if there’s one thing he does have an appetite for, it’s talking. Forty-five minutes in I’ve learned all about his son in Nashville whose wife bought $300 boots and only wanted him for his money and kidnapped their kids to hideout in Texas for 3-4 years until a private detective finally found them. After that we move on to the dark side of the produce industry and the radiation that gets sprayed all over vegetables from Puerto Rico when they stop at those weigh stations. Two years a widower, he manages to keep up his diet of only organic foods and pours his special veggie cleaner religiously over each piece of produce he buys.

“Boy, you wouldn’t believe what comes off a bunch of broccoli,” he says in disgust.

When I interject for one minute to say something, he starts to fall asleep.

I keep turning towards his backyard but it’s February so I can’t see the koi this time. But they’re out there still. This summer he told my husband and me that they hide in the pipes until the thaw, then reappear with the first buds and spring storms. Languid and bright, they always look out of place to me in northern Utah, land of lake-stocked tiger muskies and rainbow trout. Instead, the koi look exotic, even otherworldly. A shock of deep orange on white, like a dazzling birthmark.

Folded into our conversation is the constant reminder that he’s looking for a companion; that Mary hit the nail on the head when she said his poor health is just loneliness. I mention a widow on the street behind me. He doesn’t know who I mean for a moment, then shudders a little and shakes his head.

“I need someone easy on the eyes.”

And when he says that he leans forward and his eyes get bright. “Nothing physical,” he says with exaggerated delicacy, “just someone to help take care of me.”

When I say I don’t know what he would judge as “easy on the eyes” (wondering, of course, what classifies as hot when you’re a nonagenarian), he says, “Well, you’re attractive. But you’ve got a husband and kids already to take care of.”

He laughs when he says this, but it’s a little delayed. He’s been on a website for older singles but is repulsed by the skin on most of the women’s necks in their profile photos. Baggy and gross, and he waves his hand below his neck to show just how low their skin hangs.

He wants someone who has taken care of herself, “you know, someone who eats organic, like me, works out,” and I think how I don’t know of a single older woman who still makes it to the gym. Or quite possibly, who ever did.

We first met Earl when he started taking walks around our tiny cul-de-sac across the street from his house. He would move slowly but gracefully and stop for a breather right in front of our house. Sometimes he moved his elbows up, then stretched his arms out slowly, as if lengthening out his whole body with each stride and pulling himself forward.

It occurred to me one day as I watched him that he looked as if he were swimming. Slowly, of course, but it was there. It was the movement of a man who was breaking through something, lifting his body up in slow arcs and controlling the fall. And these walks happened to coincide perfectly with the times my husband was outside doing yard work. Earl tried hard to make it look casual, shuttling himself around our little circle several times until it was as if some current pulled him over the lip of our driveway and within earshot of my husband. He wasn’t just walking; he was swimming. And it wasn’t coincidence; he had a destination.

***

Are we born swimming in our mother’s bodies to practice swimming in our own?

We’re 60% water. We’re used to moving against it. Our blood, sweat, and tears are all mainly water. The brain and heart are 73% water. Lungs: 83%. Even bones, the great metaphor for dryness, the arid landscape of our bodies, are about 31% water. Kids and babies have a higher percentage of water than adults. That radiant shine and elasticity of their skin says it all.

We call oceans and lakes “bodies of water,” but we never include ourselves in that description. Four years ago we lost our youngest son, a stillborn, and as we held his tiny body for a few precious hours, I marveled at the amount of water that seeped from his pores and began to soak the white blanket the nurses wrapped him in. One of the nurses told us that seeping of water from the body is called weeping, the body’s grief in letting go, the slow release of unneeded water. There was so much of it. Like a punctured kiddie pool, eventually leaving the plastic sad and deflated.

He didn’t need to swim in my body anymore. Or his own.

For Earl, every day he swims through loneliness. He breaks through it with his words, his chit chat, with anyone who will dive with him into a conversation. He swims through grief that is the same texture as loneliness. He swims through the breakdown of his body. One day he’ll sink to the bottom of it. And the truth is age means you swim in deeper waters. Just like how the pool slants and the water at one end is clearly deeper, even darker sometimes, things feel deeper, almost bottomless, the older you get.

Our cul-de-sac of five houses is like a tiny pond in the larger mass of the neighborhood. Tucked up near the top of a hill, we’re a quiet lot. We are the only ones in our circle that Earl knows, and we live the farthest from his house and slightly uphill. This means that the effort he makes to reach us is significant, especially when he feels stiff or is in pain.

He moves past the house of the girl who wants to sink to the bottom of her body at age twelve; who is done swimming and angry with her parents for reviving her and for keeping her afloat with rehab centers and counseling.  What she moves against is not death, that far-off shore that we all squint at and wonder, but life, the blinding light and the touch of every breathing thing against her. Her own breath is her enemy. I think about this a long time. It makes every part of me ache. Her younger sister glides through second grade and swings in the front yard with her head back and eyes closed. For her it’s all back float, the sun on her face and her small frame buoyant, bobbing almost effortlessly on the surface.

He moves past the house of the middle-aged man who’s just married a twenty-something amateur model from Russia, his thinning hair and weathered skin next to her tiny blond frame. She’s his flotation device. His large house and the new white Audi she cruises in up and down the hill are hers. I can’t help but wonder when the air will leak out of both, or if it already has.

He moves past the house of the severely autistic young man who runs across the cul-de-sac once a year to deliver Christmas goodies to our front porch. Otherwise he circles close to home, swept up in the wake of his father’s close care. He checks the mail and rakes a few leaves on the front lawn, but most of the time he’s simply a blurry face in the passenger seat of the car that drives past us with his father’s quick wave.

And there it is again—wave: the body as water. How our hands mimic the undulations, the dance of ocean. A liquid movement towards or away from. As in, Here I am. Can I come closer? Or, There you go. I’ll miss you. A wave is a reaching. Usually for the shore of another person where we feel safe; where we can rest a moment.

One night months after our son’s death when it seemed the world had moved on and I was still unsteady and broken, I sat on our bed and sobbed to my husband that I was drowning in grief and it felt like no one cared; that everyone else stood on the shore, comfortable in their distance and happily waving as if I were just fine.

“People care, but they don’t know what to do to help you,” he said.

“They can at least reach out!” I hollered back in anger.

Maybe they were reaching, but I couldn’t see it. Waving then looked superficial; a trite gesture from neighbors at the store or from across the street on our evening walks. It reminded me of the famous poem “Not Waving But Drowning” by Stevie Smith, about a man who was out to sea all his life, drowning in the deep, dark waters, and what everyone assumed was simply a friendly wave was really a signal for help.

A wave, then, has its limitations. Like ocean waves, it has a strong pull but collapses into itself if not followed by another gesture or force, a movement towards something.

For me then, I was waving for help, but none seemed to come. Neighbors and friends waved from the shore, smiling. Our signals were there; they just weren’t enough.

***

When Earl waves to us after he’s lifted himself over and over again towards our house with all the muscular grace his body can muster, it’s impossible not to go to him. One evening in the fall we’re both raking leaves, and as Earl approaches, I set down my rake; Sean leans on his. We talk for what seems like an hour, and as it starts to get dark, I round up our boys for bed. But Earl is not done talking, so Sean stays. Later from the front window, I can just make out the outlines of them: Sean’s back, occasionally bending forward to nod or a laugh, and over his shoulder, Earl’s face, darkened but still animated. The rest of the leaves will have to wait for tomorrow. Sean is a good-natured, patient man, so he doesn’t mind, especially since he knows Earl needs this chat; that this is likely the most interaction he’ll have with another person all day. And it feels good to be needed this way. The rest of our neighbors barely say a word to us, but this one craves our company.

After he cracks his rib and can’t get out as much, Earl lets the chit chat come to him. Neighbors from up the street come by regularly to check on him, take him to doctor appointments, drop off dinners and, of course, talk, or rather, listen. One evening when I’m visiting with Mary at the bottom of my front steps, we see Earl across the street watching us.

“I’d better go over,” she says. “He has all of those words he needs to use up, and he doesn’t have anyone to spend them on.”  Words as currency, as gold, bright, and precious as coins in a stream or as those spots on Earl’s koi that I’ve thought about all winter.

***

Years ago when the scoliosis was crushing my grandmother’s organs and she breathed in small gasps, we sat on her couch and I asked her if she was ready to die. It was a bold question, but we had that kind of relationship, and I knew she’d be honest in her answer. I don’t remember which of us said it, but one of us used the phrase “take the plunge,” and I pictured her diving, as gracefully as she ever was, out of her body and into another world. And her answer was more than yes. She made it clear that when the time came, she’d be anxious, even pleased. Whatever world we’re in, we swim through it. Sometimes laboriously; other times with ease.

It’s Spring now. Earl’s koi will shuttle themselves out of the cold, narrow pipes where they’ve been cramped all winter and ease themselves into the ponds in his backyard. A kind of re-birth. They will return as easily and perennially as the daffodils and crocuses. And koi, as it turns out, are some of the most affable fish you’ll find. They are not territorial or threatened by other fish. They do not eat smaller fish or drive them away. They live happily alongside crayfish, sturgeon, even goldfish. They can swim in the cool waters, content in their languid grace. As long as they’re properly fed, they can live nearly anywhere, in any company, and for a long time.

Earl is feeling better and has started edging his lawn again in ten minute increments. When I drive by on my way to the store or to pick up kids from piano, I try to pause for a moment. I know he’ll look up when he hears the motor. We’ll both stop a moment, smile, and wave.

Storms

19 November 2020
Categories: Nonfiction

Hailstorm

We sat on the front porch early that morning, right as the sun should’ve risen, listening to ping-pong balls of hail pound against the tin awning from the sickly green sky. Tornado weather, an annual event for Oklahoma. My feet kicked back and forth, 7-year-old legs too short to reach the cold concrete from my spot on the bench. My grandfather rested beside me, guardian in the absence of an irresponsible father, flicking the ash from the end of the Marlboro burning bright in his right hand. The potential for tornadoes halted city activities for the day, including work and school. So instead, Papoo and I watched the rain. Thunder shook the earth, and we both jumped, my heart an electric hummingbird frantically beating in my chest. I looked out to the wooden cross in the corner of our yard, a pair of two-by-fours nailed perpendicular, convinced it had been struck from the ferocity of the crack. The wood remained in place, uncharred.

After days of severe storm coverage, Oklahoma’s favorite weatherman, Gary England, had promised some midday relief. As a pioneer in meteorology credited with being the first on-air personality to track storms via satellite, Gary England had more than earned Oklahomans’ trust. However, if the rising waters on our suburban street and the swirling skies were indicators, the rain didn’t look to be letting up any time soon.

“Damn, Gary England, callin’er wrong again. ‘Dried up by noon’ my ass. This here is God laughing.”

Papoo huffed loudly, shouting, “Can you believe this?” through the screen door to Meme, who busily made breakfast in the kitchen. I walked to the edge of the porch, stretching a thin arm out into the typhoon and catching a few bits of hail. I cupped the icy clumps in my hands, presenting them to Papoo. “Kids at school say rain is angels crying. So, what’re these?” His calloused fingers brushed my smooth palm as he lifted a chunk of ice up to his eye, squinting through his glasses as if to zoom in on the object.

“Maybe it’s just chilly up there today,” he responded boringly, tossing the ice into the front yard. Unsatisfied with his answer, I continued my questioning: “Why is God laughing at us?” Without missing a beat, Papoo quipped back, “Because we pretend to understand Him.”

Again his dismissal frustrated me. I stared down at the melting ice in my hands, wondering why my family bothered to care so much about God if he was just going to laugh at us for trying. While we’d never had a solid home church, Christianity surged through my grandparents’ veins, seeped into our everyday lives: bible stories before bed; gospel music in the kitchen tape player; personal bibles emblazoned with our names. But often my young questions of faith were met with these adult pronouncements of wisdom I never understood

“God is mean,” I finally replied.

I flung the remaining water from my palms, wiping my hands on my jeans. Looking up, I met Papoo’s eyes as he stared down at me. “He can be,” Papoo began, glancing out into the now totally flooded street, darker clouds rolling in above us. “And maybe you won’t always like how things are going, but that’s why you gotta have faith, Girly Girl.” He paused then, pulling another cigarette from the silver pack with his teeth. Lighter ablaze, he puffed a few times until the tip glowed red, exhaling smoke and scripture: “’Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.’ That’s from Hebrews. We’ll mark the page in your bible when we head in.” He stood up then, groaning as he stretched. In the street, a stray dog dashed through the floodwaters searching for shelter from the storm. I turned to ask Papoo if God would give the dog mercy in its time of need, too, but he had already gone into the house.

Tornado

Nine years later and nine point five miles away, an F5 tornado ripped through the town of Moore, Oklahoma, passing less than a mile from my high school. The storm struck at 2:56 p.m. before classes had dismissed for the day. Papoo would tell me that upon hearing Gary England confirm a cyclone at 19th Street and Santa Fe, he immediately headed to the school, tornado be damned. “I just prayed,” he’d say, “For you. For them all.” Frantically he dialed my number over and over again, always to receive a robotic, “I’m sorry, but the AT&T cust-,” before slapping his phone shut and trying again. During a tornado, cell phones are nothing but hunks of frustration as phone calls flood local authorities to report injuries and loved ones desperately dial those who may have been hit; and that’s only if the cell towers in town are still standing.

Two miles out from the school and the tornado’s main path, Papoo pulled his truck to the side of the road, flooding, powerlines, and emergency lights barricading his way. He continued the journey on foot, talking to God out loud, his leather cowboy boots sinking into the soft earth as he trudged through a pasture, passing shredded photo albums, battered old wicker cabinets, and chunks of people’s driveways.

As Papoo was beginning his walk, I sat bored and huddled underneath a lab table in Mrs. Winkler’s sophomore zoology class. When the principal announced all students were being held until the storm was over, he was met with general apathy. Living in Moore for any period of time meant dealing with more than a handful of tornados. With weekly siren tests, tornado procedure practices multiple times a semester, and a storm shelter in every backyard, residents of Moore often shrug off cyclones. We’ve all done this before. Smack dab in the middle of Oklahoma’s Tornado Alley, Moore is notorious for deadly twisters, with witty websites calling it “Tornado Town, USA.” While violent, Twister-esque tornados are often portrayed to be a normal occurrence in popular culture, most tornados actually result in no casualties at all, staying on the ground for mere moments before retreating into the clouds. In 2017, Oklahoma had 84 confirmed tornadoes resulting in one death for the entire year.

Because of its geographic location bordered by wide swathes of farmland, Moore sits in the perfect zone for tornados to build over miles and miles without obstruction before crashing down onto the town of 60,000. In the last 20 years, Moore tornados have caused 64 deaths, nearly triple the Oklahoma average. On May 20th, 2013, while I played Candy Crush in zoology, a black vortex of wind spinning at over 210 miles per hour ripped through our city, resulting in 24 deaths and $2 billion in damages. Among the dead: a mother and newborn holed up in a 7/11 deep freeze, nine children from Briarwood Elementary, and a 14-year-old survivor with PTSD who took his life five years later.

After an hour under the lab tables, students were released from classes and herded towards the gym, still in the dark about the magnitude of the storm. A few of us, though, had to sneak a glance. Looking out the glass double -doors at the end of the freshman hallway, I spotted my red ‘94 Mustang in the parking lot, layers of attic insulation clinging to the windows. We all fell silent, quickly wondering about the state of the houses whose pieces we saw flung across our campus. Silently we proceeded to the gym.

Papoo said the rain let up about halfway through his walk, just around the time he heard a bang in the pasture to his left. The sound of a .22 startled his gait as he spun in the direction of the shot. About a hundred years away he spotted a man with his back turned, holstering his pistol and standing in front of a black horse, dead on the ground in front of him. Papoo approached the man with a yell, “This yer property?” The gunman turned to my grandfather, his face like stone.

“Yessir,” he replied, “And these are my horses.” Papoo looked closer as he approached the horse, eyes locked on the single bullet wound in the beast’s forehead. Farther into the field, he counted four more horses dead by their owner’s hand. Papoo looked again at the man, whose eyes shone glass as he stared down at the animal. Horses are one of the most common casualties in Moore tornados. While located in the outskirts of Oklahoma City, Moore has acres of farmland, most of which is used for livestock. In the event of a tornado, farmers set their horses loose in a pasture, giving the animals more of a chance to find shelter on their own rather than trapping them in their stalls. While many of his horses had survived the initial cyclone, suffered with broken limbs, punctured lungs, and internal bleeding. “And this here,” the man said, motioning to the gun on his hip, “is all we can do for them now.”

When Papoo walked into Southmoore’s gym more than two hours after abandoning his truck, he greeted me with a hug that could have deflated the Hindenburg. Crushed between his arms, I felt the slight sobs that shook his frame, but said nothing. We walked to my car in silence, passing weeping students and praying faculty as we went, pulling the debris free from the car windows and collapsing into the seats, our faces caked in sweat from the post-twister humidity.

Electric Storm

Papoo collapsed at a Sam’s Club in the bread aisle. I was walking through my apartment’s front door, clutching a carnival-won stuffed Squirtle in my arms when Meme called about the heart attack. Resuscitation was required, they’re in the ambulance headed to the VA hospital in Midwest City, and, no, she doesn’t know how he is, but it looks bad. My boyfriend drove us to the hospital over an hour from our college town, my hands shaking too much to attempt operating a motor vehicle. As we sped by hillsides and pastures filled to the brim with fall foals, I repeated a question on loop: “What if he dies?”

After giving my name to the receptionist, I was taken to the Family Room in the ER, a small, stale room painted a terrible puke salmon and overflowing with my family members. Immediately Meme’s arms were around me, my shoulder instantaneously soaked in her tears. She stuttered with sobs as she spoke, releasing her embrace to say, “The doctor said the tests will take a few hours. We can see him after that. Now, all we can do is pray.” Around the cramped room, my relatives sipped black coffee and clasped hands in prayer, continuously reminding my grandmother, “it’s in God’s hands now.” From my corner of the room, I stared at my lap, frantically picking away black nail polish as the center of my universe lay unconscious in an MRI machine.

Hours later after a few breakdowns in the Family Room, endless phone calls to out-of-state relatives, and a ventilator tube forced down my Papoo’s throat to keep him alive, his cardiologist met with us in the ICU suite, my family huddled around my grandfather’s still form, his hand grasped limply in mine.

“He has suffered what we call a cardiac Electric Storm,” the faceless doctor said, his features blurred through the torrential tears streaming down my face. Electric Storms get their name from the continuous bursts of ventricular arrhythmia they create, like cracks of lighting to the bottom chamber of the heart. During a Storm, the heart beats too quickly, stopping the proper distribution of blood to the brain. Without medical intervention, an oxygen-deprived body eventually reacts, typically with a stroke or a cardiac arrest. This marked Papoo’s second heart attack after a quadruple bypass when I was three.

“He was most likely experiencing chest pain for the last day or so,” the doctor tells us. My grandmother looked at her husband forlornly, calling him a damn fool before burying her face against his chest, her shoulders shaking with sobs. My family breathlessly waited for anything to hint at a life behind the dead state and the ventilator, after five days of poking his heels with thumbtacks and holding blinding pen lights up to his pupils, my family breathless as we wait for anything to hint at a life behind the dead stare and the ventilator, the doctors declared Papoo brain dead:. “We are afraid there is nothing we can do but make him comfortable. We’ll give you some time to think over your options.”

The only sound was the click of the respirator robotically pumping oxygen into my grandfather’s lungs, inflating them fully with a grotesque pop. From another patient’s room, we could hear David Payne’s fall forecast playing over the ancient analog television suspended from the ceiling. Gary England had retired after the May 20th tornado, to every Oklahoman’s dismay, minus Papoo. In our room, there was no debate, no shouts of outrage or insistences of patience. My grandmother signed the paperwork to discontinue life support that same day, a tear blurring the “J” on her last name. “It’s time for him to go home,” she said. “But Lord, I don’t want to let him.”

We all got our moment to say goodbye before they officially removed the tube. I took mine last, walking into the curtained-off quadrant with my hands in my pockets. Outside rain tapped against the windows, Papoo’s favorite season, autumn, in full force. I made my final plea there, begging him to wiggle a toe or wink one eye, both of my hands desperately clasping his, pinching at the skin hoping for a jerk. Papoo remained still, his chest rising and falling mechanically, his fingers cold as ice. I held my breath a moment before letting my shoulders fall in defeat. I leaned my cheek into the palm of my Papoo’s rough hands, asking a God I didn’t believe in to save him.

“Your loved one will breathe differently after we remove the ventilator,” read the hospital’s guide for removing life support. “Their breathing may become faster than normal… Their breathing may also stop for short amounts of time. These pauses may get longer as your loved one nears death.” Papoo’s breathing had reached this stuttering phase within 10 minutes of removing the tube, which the doctors told us was very quick for a patient in his state. He occasionally coughed, and I was tempted to record the noise, preserving something of him even if just the sound of his cough. As his pauses became longer, the nurse told us that my grandmother could stay, but the rest of us would need to leave. They had a policy, of course.

I kissed Papoo on the cheek, his salt and pepper stubble scratching my face one last time. His eyes were open, boring into me as I brushed a stray hair from his forehead. I stared back, attempting to memorize every wrinkle and line in his face, willing myself to always remember what he looked like in his last few minutes on Earth. While Meme truly believed she would see him again, I didn’t, couldn’t. My atheism had solidified in adulthood, and I knew hugging him goodbye in the curtained off space of the ICU was the last time I would feel the warmth of my grandfather’s body. I bent down to Meme before I left her alone with her dying husband, kissing her on the cheek. I wrapped my arms tightly around her shoulders, telling her I wished there were something, anything I could do for her to make this easier. She squeezed my arms tightly, patting me three times and leaning closer into me as she whispered, “In my distress I called to the Lord, and he answered me.”

In the waiting room, my family had begun the clean-up process, filling old Walmart sacks with our junk food trash and completed crossword books. As I gathered my bags, contents strewn across the floor, I attempted to imagine the new Papoo-less reality in front of me. I worried: for me, for Meme, for all of us. In everything I had accomplished, he was behind me, to forgive, to provide, to reassure. I rarely made a decision without calling him for the reminder that he always believed in me. In the week before the heart attack, we had talked nearly every day. Sitting in the hospital parking lot, I left my car in park, turned on Papoo’s favorite Willie Nelson song, and prayed out loud.

Snowstorm

Snow falls so rarely in Oklahoma, any sticking shuts down entire towns. It’s early February, and I can tell immediate that something’s different as I wake up, the early afternoon outside oddly quiet, my sheer curtains showing white. My dog follows my excited steps to the front door, floppy black paws skittering to a halt as she sees the blanket of snow covering the yard. I step onto my small porch, the distinct smell of snow and ice cooling my face, a few snowflakes still falling.

As Bella sniffs the edges of the porch, I spot a red dot in the corner of my yard, blurry without my glasses. The dot, however, helps, rising from its spot in the corner and flying to the center of the yard, the cardinal bouncing through the fresh snow. I freeze, scared any noise will send the bird off to someone else’s front yard.

Red Cardinals can symbolize a lot of things, but Oklahomans, or my family at least, believe they’re the spirits of our loved ones stopping by to say, “Hi.” Maybe they’re angel birds, or just a messenger of good faith. Or maybe they’re relatively common North American birds that migrate through Oklahoma. And while I may not believe in angels or messages, I still hold my breath, kneeling down on the cold concrete and watching the bird. Papoo and I used to count cardinals and blue jays, keeping track with our fingers, ice cream promised to the highest counter (that was somehow always me). So when the cardinal flies from the center of my yard, loops around my neighbor’s tree, and disappears, I say, “Goodbye. I love you,” and have faith my message is received.

Aftermath

Papoo’s fingers clung to the Mustang’s steering wheel as he attempted to drive us out of the debris field, following endless detours and traffic controllers with bright flashlights directing us around the tornado’s destruction. Next to me, Papoo prayed, asking for mercy and grace. As we passed the hospital, now with a giant hole missing from the center, I had to ask him one thing.

“How do you have faith through something like this?” My tone was cold, oozing with spite for God and his plans.

Next to me Papoo stared at the medical center, his eyes bloodshot. I jumped slightly as he grabbed my hand, his fingers twisting tightly around mine. “In this, faith is all we have.” He reached into his jean pocket and produced a single, bent cigarette. I reminded him that he’d promised to quit after his diagnosis of COPD last month. “Lord have mercy, you sound just like your Meme,” he replied, holding the emergency cigarette butt between his teeth and pressing the orange coil of my car lighter against the end, smoke and fire crackling from the tip. Wordlessly, I extended my hand toward him, fingers poised to accept the Marlboro. We passed the cigarette back and forth, the only cigarette we would ever share, as we made our way home through the wreckage.

Buck

19 November 2020
Categories: Nonfiction

My father, Buck, was a quick-tempered, mean son of a bitch who, at age 53, shot and killed a man in a bar back home in West Virginia.

Allegedly the victim had publicly insulted Buck about his masculinity. So Buck, after an afternoon of drinking with a buddy who goaded him on about not letting the guy get away with it, decided to initiate a confrontation. But this, killing someone? Neither I nor anyone in the small, rural community of Greenbottom believed Buck would intentionally commit such a violent act. But, then, unlike me, most had never witnessed the frightening rage and fury he was capable of, especially when drinking. His life of temper tantrums, intimidation, and brawling had finally caught up to him.

It was a cold January night in 1986. I was living in northwestern Pennsylvania where I was close to earning tenure as a state university professor. I had just finished helping my young son with his homework, and we were watching The Cosby Show when the phone rang.

The caller was my slightly older cousin, Kenny, the family member always charged with giving me bad news from back home. Usually reports of deaths and illness updates. Otherwise we never spoke by phone. I jokingly called him the Grim Reaper.

“Hey, Ken, what’s going on?”

“Some bad news. Buck shot a guy this evening at the Glenwood Inn. Killed him.”

I was stunned. Wordless. Had I heard him right? I had to gather myself.

Finally, I asked, “What happened?”

“He fucked up.”

Buck and my mother, Patty, were high school sweethearts and they married shortly after my mother graduated from high school. Buck had quit school when he was sixteen and went to work in a local chair factory. By all accounts from my family and their friends, they were in love and devoted to each other. I was born a year after they got married. Then the day before my third birthday, my mother died suddenly from a poorly treated infection that reached her brain.

Buck’s best friend and running-around buddy at that time—who later became a Baptist preacher and pillar of the community—once told me about hanging out in beer joints with Buck after my mother’s death. Buck would feed the juke box with nickels and play the Johnny Cash song, “Guess Things Happen That Way,” over and over.

Well you ask me if I’ll forget my baby.

I guess I will, someday.

I don’t like it but I guess things happen that way.

You ask me if I’ll get along.

I guess I will, someway.

I don’t like it but I guess things happen that way.

(Clement, J., 1958, Stanza 1)

I was familiar with that song but unaware of its significance to Buck. I now realize how, at age 23, Buck was wild in his grief over the loss of my mother.

Buck and I were never close. After my mother died, I first went to live with my paternal grandmother, and later, with my great-aunt Frankie and great-uncle Wilmer on the family homestead up a holler called Turkey Creek. I rarely saw Buck, although he lived only a few miles away.

When I reached my teens, Buck would make an occasional drive-by appearance to the home place where we would have very strained conversations. I recall sitting with Buck out in the yard on spring-back metal chairs where he would awkwardly try to connect with me by offering his notion of fatherly advice: always use a rubber, always hit the other guy first, never change your oil without also changing the filter, a little nip in the morning after a night of drinking will help sober you up, and, my favorite, if a man has a piece of ground, he can make it. Not bad advice, I suppose, but at age 14, it didn’t yet matter much to me.

Growing up I was scared to death of Buck, with his volatile temper and steely brown eyes that pierced right through me. He was proud of being a six-footer, a rarity among the men in our Irish ancestral family and maintained a neatly trimmed, full head of thick, wavy, auburn hair. Always clean shaven, he kept a steady wiry weight of 175 pounds that belied solid core tensile strength. While never an athlete, he could move with startling quickness, especially his hands. His personal neatness carried over to his possessions, which he maintained with precise orderliness. He always wiped his wrenches down with kerosene after using them and cleaned his shovels of dirt before storage by plunging them into a bucket of sand that was infused with used motor oil. He carried a bone-handled Case pocket knife that was always honed to a razor sharp finish, a particular point of pride among many Appalachian men of his generation. He would be ashamed to carry a dull knife.

Without warning, Buck could go from calm to rage within seconds over seemingly incidental actions. Add some alcohol and he was even more unpredictable and capricious. I was always on guard around him, careful not to say or do something that would set him off. It didn’t happen often, and never after I reached the age of 11, but there were occasions when he would whip off his belt with one hand, snatch me up with the other, and wail on me until I cried. I once heard him and a loafing buddy brag that they wouldn’t stop a whipping until they saw tears. If I refused to cry, the thrashing became even more relentless until tears finally came. Mine were tears of rage, not of pain.

Our interaction remained sporadic throughout my college years at Marshall University in the nearby city of Huntington. Then one hot summer night when I was in graduate school, he stopped by my apartment. He had been out drinking and wanted me to join in. He asked me where the roughest joint in town was. He kept saying, “We’re as tough as they are. Let’s get a beer.”

The meanest place in town was the Golden Goose, a biker bar that ran hookers out of the second floor. Feeling coerced, I climbed into his truck like a dumbass and rode the few blocks to the bar. It was a quiet week night with only a handful of what appeared to be regulars. In places like these, fights usually don’t begin with words, but with glares and scowls. Mean-mugging, as it’s called today.

At the Golden Goose, I knew Buck was looking to brawl. I grabbed a table away from the bar where everyone else was drinking and ordered a pitcher of beer. I began asking him questions about a vintage Farmall C tractor that he was restoring. He was passionate about old farm equipment, especially Farmalls. I wasn’t interested in his tractor as much as I was hoping to distract him from nosing around for trouble. I wanted to keep the conversation light and easy, hoping to avoid any windows for confrontation with those drinking around us. As he talked, I kept thinking that his idea of a nice father/son outing wasn’t a fishing trip or a round of golf or attending a sporting event. He wanted to be able to say that he and his son got into a brawl together at a biker bar. The outcome didn’t matter. It was the willingness to engage and not back down that he was looking to revel in. He wanted to see me fulfill the reflection of his own brawler self-image.

After we drained our pitcher, Buck slammed his empty mug on the table and yelled, “What do you have to do to get a drink around here?”

The bar grew quiet, and everyone turned our way. The bartender, a thickset, tattooed guy with a shaved scalp, braided black beard, and a Harley chain for a belt, very calmly said, “Just ask, asshole. But ask nice.”

Buck and the bartender locked eyes and I thought, “Here we go.”

After a long pause, Buck said, “Bring us another pitcher of Falls City. Make sure it’s full this time.”

In ominous silence, the bartender delivered our pitcher with his left hand, while his right hand gripped a small blackjack down by his leg. He and Buck began a stare-down like two dogs looking to establish dominance. The longer the stare, the greater the risk of escalated conflict. Looking away signaled submissiveness. Neither one blinked. I reached across the table and handed the bartender a five dollar bill for the $1.25 round and told him to keep the change. He looked over at me, took the money and politely said, “Thanks.”

The bartender returned behind the bar and the room started humming again. We finished our beer and I suggested that we move on to a nearby bootlegging joint that offered a blackjack table. Buck liked that idea and told me that he hadn’t done any gambling in quite some time. We walked across the room to the door with Buck and the bartender wordlessly exchanging one last round of hard eyes, then stepped out into the hot, muggy night without incident.

Outside, we headed down the street toward his truck without talking. Then I suddenly stopped walking and faced him square and full. I told him I was done for the night. I was going to head back home. Buck wanted no part of it and began badgering me to stay out with him. I could see his agitation quickly rising as he lit me up that old familiar intimidating glare.

“You can’t go home now. We just got started. I’ve been wanting for us to hang out together. Don’t puss out on me.”

I slowly shook my head and replied, “Maybe next time.”

We stood there on the sidewalk, face-to-face, each feeling sorry for the other for different reasons. I turned around and left him there standing in silence. He never came by my place again. We never went out drinking again. We never spoke of that night on those rare occasions that brought us together.

After the shooting, Buck remained out on bail for nine months until his week-long trial began in October. I chose to not attend the trial. I was angry at him. I was embarrassed to be his son. I had reached my tipping point. I had had enough of him. The trial was covered extensively by local newspapers and while I have kept the articles, I have not looked at them again since they were published. Although charged with first degree murder, the jury believed Buck’s account that the shooting was an accident. He was convicted of involuntary manslaughter, typically defined as an unintentional killing that results from criminal negligence, not premeditation. He spent less than a year in the Mason County jail.

Immediately after the shooting occurred, I went back home to West Virginia, met with Buck, and asked him what happened. I expressed my disbelief that he would simply walk up and shoot someone. He stood up and physically showed me what had happened. Buck walked into the beer joint to confront the guy about what he had been saying. Buck had heard that the victim carried a pistol. So Buck approached him holding an old JC Higgins .22 caliber pistol in one hand while searching the victim’s belt line with the other to disarm him.

Buck told me, “I said to him, ‘where is it?’ Then my gun went off. I didn’t mean to pull the trigger.” I believed him. So did the jury.

I visited him just once while he was in jail and, then, only after much urging from my wife and a couple of family members. It was a hot Sunday afternoon in May when I stopped by the jail unannounced. He had been housed there for 4 or 5 months and was a trustee, hanging out with the sheriff deputies, drinking coffee, and smoking cigarettes. Apparently they were all members of the same nearby Moose Lodge. A young deputy led us to a small room reserved for attorneys. He didn’t ask to frisk me, leaving me intact with my pocket knife—a Case, of course. Buck was surprised and pleased that I had come. As usual, he did most of the talking. The only thing I clearly recall was him sitting there, looking away, and saying that he wished he could go back and do a few things differently. What those things were, he didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. I just nodded in agreement. After 20 minutes or so, I wished him well and rang myself the hell out of there.

After serving less than a year of his sentence, Buck and my step-mother retired to Florida where they bought a nice little house and resumed their lives together. They returned home to West Virginia each year at Christmas, staying with relatives. It was during the last of those trips that he was stricken with a brain aneurism. My wife and I were also back visiting, staying at Cousin Kenny’s place, which was only a few houses away from where Buck was staying.

On the last afternoon Buck was alive, I had just gotten into my truck with my Gordon Setter, Willie, to go ruffed grouse hunting. As I looked into the rearview mirror to back out of the driveway, I saw Buck’s van driving up the lane. I immediately felt a suffocating sensation of dread. He stopped the van behind me, waiting to see if I was going to get out and say hello. I didn’t move, only nodded through the mirror. I sat there hoping he would back up and move on. He did.

Later that night, New Year’s Eve, 1992, I went to a party at the home of some old friends. I returned to Kenny’s house around 2:30 a.m. and had just climbed into bed when the phone rang. It was my step-mother. She asked me to come right away, that Buck had just collapsed in the bathroom and appeared to be having a stroke. I ran to where they were staying and found him conscious but incoherent. He was looking up at me but I had no idea what was registering. I cradled him and kept talking to him until the emergency medical workers arrived. I rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital in nearby Huntington. He never regained consciousness and, two days later, my step-mother removed him from life support.

In his novel, Jayber Crow, Wendell Berry writes, “When I was a young man, I hardly knew what I knew, let alone what I was going to know.”

For years I buried a lot of resentment and anger towards Buck. It has slowly receded. I thought I would feel guilt for not getting out of my truck to talk to him on our final encounter. I haven’t.

I haven’t felt sadness about his passing as I have relief from not having to deal with him.

I haven’t forgiven him as much as I have simply let it all slip away.

In the words of Johnny Cash all those years ago:

You ask me if I’ll get along.

I guess I will, someway.

I don’t like it but I guess things happen that way.

First Things Last

30 April 2020
Categories: Nonfiction

The end of the story is clear: the end of my parents as I once knew them. But where exactly did their end begin? I have worried the question for years. I feel like the little boy in the Sesame Street episode I used to watch with my nephews. The boy happily sets off from home for a brief adventure on his bicycle, passing random objects along the way—a street clock, a plastic house, an animal fountain—before suddenly realizing he has no idea how he got to this strange place. “I don’t like it here,” he says. “I’m really, really lost.” 

Was there a moment when the casual journey of my life—and the life of my parents—took an unexpected turn, marking the beginning of an end? Call it the end of my innocence, my fall from grace. The grace of a lucky child who had lived threescore years in a kind of Eden. At the time, I didn’t recognize it as Eden. It was simply my life, complete with the requisite bumps and sorrows of all lives. But a life more fortunate than most, in part because my parents were busy living theirs. One of the greatest gifts parents can give grown children is to live their own lives, freeing their children to live theirs. 

In the midst of his lostness, the boy encounters an odd, top-hatted creature and pleads with the creature to “Help me get unlost!” But rather than lead the boy back home, the creature gives him advice: “Try to remember everything you passed. Make the first thing the last.”  

Remember everything I passed? How many markers did I miss along the way? Or if I did notice them, I unconsciously chose to ignore: my parents’ weight loss; the empty refrigerator when I visited them in Indiana; the opened mayonnaise jars in the cabinet; bills piling up on the dining table; my mother’s constant repetitions each time I phoned—as I did every few days from my home three states away. Not to check on them, just to hear their voices. Both voices at the same time. Stereo parents, I often joked. 

“Pick up, Juanita,” Dad would call from the phone in the den. And as we waited for my mother’s voice to come onto the extension line, I could hear his breathing—oh, what I would now give to hear my father’s breathing—and his “Hold on, she’s upstairs” or “Hold on, she’s in the kitchen.” Then I’d hear the click of the second phone and my mother’s “Hello, and which kid is this?” These were the years when she still remembered that she had kids, and grandkids, and greats.

“Not so loud,” Dad would say to Mother. “Juanita, there’s an echo. Back off a little.” And she would, for a minute or two. Then she’d be back at full volume, reporting the news—Dad had changed the spark plugs on the snow blower, she was sorting through stacks in the basement, and did I want the wok because they never used it anymore. 

“Oh, yes,” she added one day. “Your dad had a bit of an adventure last night.” As I soon learned, my father’s adventure was a middle-of-the-night tumble down the hall stairs, landing headfirst on the vase that sat on the rug beside the piano. I wouldn’t know for months that he’d not only fallen before but had also suffered several mini-strokes.

“Fourteen stitches to prove it. Blood was everywhere,” Mother continued. “But he wouldn’t let me call 911.” 

“Waste of money,” Dad snapped.

As Mother explained it, after she had taped up the wound, he finally agreed to go to the hospital and to let her drive—a rare concession. Dad prided himself on his driving. He loved everything about it—the dashboard knobs and meters and gauges, the speed, the control, the feeling of floating between ground and sky. Driving suspended him not only in space but also in time, returning him to his decades of military flying assignments—from lighter-than-air gliders to solo night flyers to two-man fighter jets to transports that could hold 100 passengers. 

Dad wasn’t the kind of father you could scold, so over the phone that day I jokingly asked how many stitches the vase had required, which brought a smile to his voice. I love that you can hear a smile, even over the phone. I love that there was a time when even this sort of news did not signal the beginning of the end. 

 

Fast-forward a few years. Mother’s diabetes and balance problems had worsened; she was now what her doctor called a “wall walker,” steadying herself by grabbing whatever she could reach—an arm, a chair, a table, the wall. In the meantime, her mind had become even more fragile than her body. She kept lists everywhere: her children’s names, reminders to “turn off stove” or “lock door” or “put keys in kitchen drawer.” 

One morning my cell phone rang and I answered with a twist on my mother’s accustomed greeting. “Hello, and which parent is this?”

“This is your father. Your mother has something to tell you. Juanita?” he called out.  “Can you pick up? And don’t get up from that chair until I get down there!”

I heard the familiar click of the second phone and then my mother’s voice: “Oh, where do I begin?” She’s always been a digressive storyteller and her digressions are often more interesting than the plot. But I’d sensed urgency in Dad’s voice and I was anxious for her to get to the point, which (after several of her side trips involving, among other things, the closing of the YWCA swimming pool, a relative’s garage sale, and a description of the casseroles friends had been bringing) turned out to be this: while Dad was outside washing windows, Mother suddenly decided she’d take a walk (holding onto what, I wondered?) and as she passed some men working on a construction project, the sidewalk suddenly “just came right up” and she fell facedown, hitting “every part of me I could.” Dad knew nothing of this until the doorbell rang and he opened the door to see two strangers in work clothes, one man balancing a cement-crusted wheelbarrow into which a tiny lady was folded. Her lips and chin were bleeding and one knee had already begun to swell. 

As it turned out, the injury was a severe fracture that would require major surgery fraught with complications from which Mother would never fully recover. Over the next few months—and now years—her already fragile mind would continue to splinter into delusions, hallucinations, and blank stares into our faces alternating with occasional glimpses of recognition that at times were more disturbing, to her and to us, than the blankness.

And as the months moved inexorably forward, the mini-strokes that Dad had once hidden from us would continue like roadside flares warning of danger ahead. The danger was still three years away, a series of full-fledged strokes that would eventually land him in the hospice ward where his last breaths broke the silent air. “So sad,” Mother would say hours afterward. “About that poor old man who died.” 

 

But I could know nothing of this yet, holding the phone to my ear while Mother’s voice regaled me with tales of wheelbarrows and casseroles. Should I have sensed in that moment that we had entered a new era? Or were there markers that I had missed along the way, little details that slipped out during other phone calls? She had misplaced her dentures; she’d run out of diabetes medicine; they’d had another close call in the Buick, but no, Dad wasn’t driving too close, he’s always been a good driver you know. 

It’s true; he always had been. Throughout my childhood and up until the last decade of his life, I always felt safe with my father at the wheel. (Stateside, home from his flying missions, he had to settle for one of any number of station wagons that over the years transported our large family across town or across the country to our grandparents’ Midwest farm.) Even in the worst conditions—“a blinding snowstorm,” as weather forecasters called it—Dad was never blinded. Born and raised in Illinois, he expertly maneuvered along icy roads snow-banked high on both sides. Once in elementary school when we were studying similes, our teacher wrote the phrase “pure as the driven snow” on the board, asking for volunteers to explain its meaning. My hand shot up. “It means when everything is white and you drive through the snow without stopping,” I said proudly. “The way my dad does.”

My teacher was a kind woman and her correction was gentle. I remember that she smiled at me, then went on to explain that driven snow was snow that had been driven—carried along—by the wind, forming snow drifts. Drifts, driven: see how the words connect? 

Yes, I did. But the teacher’s explanation held no sway against the image in my mind and still doesn’t to this day. Wind might be the driver, but it is always Dad I see in the driver’s seat, his gloveless hands resting calmly, lightly, on the steering wheel (no tense death-grip for my father) as we sail through a sea of white, cutting a clean, straight path all the way across country and right to my grandparents’ door. We always arrived safely and on time. And we never lost our way. Possessed of a pilot’s sense of navigation, Dad never consulted a map or compass. His mind was his compass, his spatial memory a source of stubborn pride right up until the last years of his life.

The last years. The Buick. Of course, how could I have missed it? I walk backward in my mind to another phone call—before Mother’s wheelbarrow rescue, before Dad’s tumble down the stairs. It was a winter evening, early December, and I’d called to check on how the reunion had gone that day. Mother’s nieces had planned a holiday luncheon at my cousin’s farm about thirty miles from my parents’ house, and Mother and Dad had been looking forward to it. She was taking her famous potato salad and a green bean casserole, the same dishes she took to every celebration the relatives hosted—autumn hayrides, Christmas and Easter gatherings, summer parties by the pond. Thinking of this now, my heart seizes. How full their lives were, how connected. 

“How was it?” I asked when Dad answered the phone. “I’ll bet the great-nephews have really grown.”

“Juanita?” he called. “Pick up the phone. Hold on,” he said to me. “She’s in the kitchen.”

Mother’s voice came onto the line. “Hello, and which kid is this? Can you freeze potato salad?”

“You have leftovers?” I said. “I can’t believe those teenagers didn’t finish everything.”

“It snowed, you know,” my father said.

“Not hard,” Mother said.

“Hard enough.” I heard the agitation growing in Dad’s voice. “We hadn’t been out that way for a long time.” Only a few months, I was thinking. And he knows those roads like the back of his hand. 

“But you left by noon, right?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” Mother said. “Bright as anything—with the snow and all. I had to put on my dark glasses. It was so strange. Everything looked different.”

“With the dark glasses?”

“Everything. It was like we’d never been there before.”

“I guess all the renovations at the farmhouse really changed the look of things,” I said.

“We never found it,” she answered. “We just kept driving and driving.”

“I’m hanging up now,” Dad said. There was an audible sigh, then a click, and he was gone. No stereo parents today.

“It was so strange,” Mother continued. “I said, ‘Paul, let’s pull over and ask someone.’ There was a fire station.”

There is no fire station anywhere near my cousin’s house. “You should have taken the phone,” I said. My sister had given Dad a cell phone months before, but he never used it. A waste of money, he claimed.

“We went as far as we could on that road. Then we turned around and started again. We kept looking for that sign—you know, the one off 38. Everything was just white. Nothing looked the same. But your dad wouldn’t stop. He kept saying ‘It’s got to be here somewhere.’ I was afraid we’d run out of gas.” 

“Did you eat something at least?” Mother can’t go long without food; her blood sugar plummets. 

“It was like we were in circles. We kept passing the same barns over and over. And railroad tracks. I was starting to get scared.” 

So was I, listening to her. You read about it all the time—old couples stranded on back roads, freezing to death in their car. It doesn’t take long, the experts say. 

“Then, when it started to get dark . . .” she continued.

“Good God, how long were you out there?”

“Paul finally said, ‘That’s it, it’s over.’ The party, he meant. ‘Let’s go home,’ he said. Just then, we saw the road sign leading to 38. We’d been so close all along!”

“Well, I’m glad you made it back,” I said. Then after wishing them both a good night, I hung up the phone and looked at my watch: 6:30. It must have been dark when they finally arrived home from their journey.

If you can call it a journey— the endless circling, the once-familiar landscape growing stranger by the minute. Lost-in-the-woods children. Except they weren’t children, they were my parents, and if they were lost, I must have been, too. This is what I am feeling now, years past my father’s death and deep inside the tangle of my mother’s mind. I keep replaying the phone call, imagining the snowy scene: my father in the driver’s seat, Mother beside him staring out at the fields frosted with white.  

But this time, when the Buick slows to turn around one last time, I open the door of my mind and climb into the back seat. Beside me the potato salad rests safely beneath its Tupperware seal and the green bean casserole is still warm, covered in foil. Foods from my childhood, ordinary and reliable as the stars my father once steered by: celestial navigation, he called it.  Snow is swirling around us, but Dad’s focus does not waver, his hands confident on the steering wheel. Mother moves closer to rub his shoulder. No need to worry; they know the way. Heat from the floor vent warms my feet and I slide back into the soft leather, feeling myself move heavily toward sleep as only a child can. The sun has not yet begun to set; there is still plenty of time to arrive.

Even Birds

30 April 2020
Categories: Nonfiction

As a romantic, I sometimes take the evidence of love in nature as proof and prophecy, especially when it comes from birds. I used to cite bird love like that could be my reality: “Even vultures mate for life!” I would chirp to anyone willing to listen, as if birds remaining coupled season after season made it possible for me to find someone willing to do the same. However, even birds break up. In the birder realm it’s more commonly referred to as divorce.

Bird divorce is defined as two birds no longer remaining together in the next season, despite both returning to the same location. Some birds divorce after every mating season, seeking a new partner each time (looking at you, flamingos). Some birds never leave their original partner, and continue returning to them again and again. I see this as romantic and try imagining my own partner wanting to be with me through multiple seasons.

Perhaps it’s from watching too many romantic movies growing up and seeing marriage presented as the self-actualizing moment in a woman’s life, but I want that moment. I want to choose a partner for life, and I want our love to continue after that day of declaration. I want a love that will stay with me, a love that I will dream is fated, that if we didn’t meet in this life we would find each other in the next one. Birds who remain with their partners, who do mate for life, are an immense comfort to me. “See?” I say to myself, “If birds can do it, why can’t I?” I look at birds nuzzling on telephone wires and think, “Why not me?”

In studies about human breakup tendencies, I have read that people will often breakup in the spring. As the weather warms, we untangle our bodies and go outside. We see all the other options we hadn’t noticed while huddling for heat. I can’t help but feel anxious with a partner in spring. I am both excited for our entwined summer schedules, and on edge that the more we plan together, the more we will have to cancel when the relationship ends.

The reasons for bird divorce are sometimes unclear. A study focusing on the Eurasian blue tit revealed that while a bird who returned to its same mate tended to have more success than a bird seeking new partners, mating with the same partner was mostly due to timing. If Bird A returned to mate before its partner, Bird B, then A wouldn’t wait for B to arrive and would find a new love. Some 64% divorced throughout the course of the study. How could you be expected to wait to have kids if your partner might never show up again? They could be hurt, stranded with a broken wing where they last landed, or even dead.

I have overly romanticized almost every relationship I have been in, and I am still doing it today. I looked at each high school boyfriend like he was it for me. Eli was certainly the one. Well, okay, maybe not after breaking up with me, but then certainly Austin. Austin was it. Until I learn to be the one to take things less seriously, I’ll looked at each mate as my life-partner. The father of the future children I didn’t even know if I wanted.

Animals in the wild mate almost exclusively to reproduce. The end goal is babies. Always babies. However, many psychological studies on humans have debunked evolutionary psychology, which claims humans are mostly behaving out of their base desire to reproduce.

When I asked my mother to describe the defining moments of her life, her own self-actualizing points, she did not mention marrying my father, whom she later divorced. She said it was having my sisters and me. Giving birth and raising us was maybe the most important thing to her. I didn’t know what to say or how to relate to that feeling then, and I still don’t now.

I want a partner who will love me infinitely, yet I cannot guarantee offspring. I cannot promise my partner children I may never wish to produce. But would I change my mind if I loved my partner? Would they change theirs? I am of the opinion that you should decide about children on your own. If you have them out of love for your partner, not a genuine desire to have children, I think it is the wrong choice.

My present partner agrees with me. We just can’t seem to agree on our choices. But my choice of him as my partner is deep rooted. Emotionally I have built a staggering nest for us without acknowledging the consequences. When I think of losing him, of the potential breakup, I fall out of our metaphorical tree into a hole of depression I dug myself. I am endangering my own happiness, and risking his, with the thought we won’t work out. The thought that not even this one, this one I love so much, is the one.

The birds with the best record, the least divorce, 100% remaining pairs throughout their lives until one dies, are albatrosses. The albatross is a large sea bird. It is born on land and then sails the winds above the ocean for years, often traveling hundreds to thousands of miles before returning to meet its mate. They appear similar to seagulls in color but with beaks bearing a slight resemblance to the dodo, though infinitely more graceful. They look like supermodels of the bird world, sharp eyes shaded with grey feathers as if contoured for the runway. They can grow a wingspan of up to 12 feet and make seagulls look trivial and tasteless with their French fry-thieving tendencies.

Albatrosses can spend years seeking out the right mate through demonstrative dance and displays of long necks and massive wings. The dancing involves romantic moves like beak touching and a lot of screaming. When albatrosses finally settle down, they continue dancing with only each other, making specific steps between them. It may take up to 15 years to find the right mate and settle down. That sounds like a long time for a bird, but the albatross can live over 40 years, one of the oldest surpassing 68 years and she is still laying eggs with her mate.

My current relationship is arguably the most serious relationship I have ever had. He has a key to my apartment, where he stays even when I am away. I have begun wondering when people do things. When do people move in? When do people talk about marriage? When must people reconcile differing opinions on serious life decisions? When do people separate when those differences cannot be reconciled? We have friends who became engaged after one month of knowing each other. We have friends who are getting married after dating for ten years. One day I said we had our whole lives to do something and it made him happy. It made him look at me like fireworks, like someone seeing a baby bird leap out and fly for the very first time.

An albatross will lay one egg each time it mates, and both parents take turns flying, sometimes thousands of miles, in search of food for the chick. Their babies are grey, fluffy, and rather silly looking, like small Muppet creatures, very different from their elegant and smooth parents. The babies are important and treasured since an albatross will not mate every year. Sometimes pairs do not return to their nesting area for two years or more. However, mates always return to one another at the right time. We don’t know how albatrosses agree when to return to their nest, but they must make some arrangements knowing they will lose one another at sea.

We also don’t know if birds, in general, decide to find new mates due to personality differences, though researchers have hypothesized that this, along with mating difficulties, may explain divorces. The only really emotionally wrenching discussion I have had with my partner is about children. And we have had it repeatedly, each time leaving me struggling to breathe between tears. He would, if possible, like to have them. I am on the fence on good days, usually days where I haven’t heard a baby crying. The first time we tried to talk about it, we both ended up crying on a bathroom floor. We keep saying it is too early to talk about, keep asking “why are we talking about this?” and we’ll take turns telling each other it’s okay, that it’ll be okay. We will be okay. But I always worry later if, when he said “we,” he meant us together or apart.

Albatrosses have mastered isolation. While they mate for life, they are often not physically together. At sea they often split up, circling the earth alone. I am, at best, clingy. When my partner first used the word to describe himself in past relationships, it was the opposite of a warning sign to me. It was a lighthouse. The first sight of land. Someone like me. Something to cling to. If I were lost at sea for years waiting to see my loved one, I fear I would drown. Not because I don’t know how to swim, but because I simply couldn’t bring myself to go through the motions of living only to live alone. Sometimes I am afraid I might do anything to avoid solitude.

Occasionally, a male albatross might have a brief affair, especially in situations such as the one on the island of Oahu where there are same sex female couples who still intend to have a chick but need a male donor. However, after such transgressions, the male albatross will then usually return to his original mate. There is no abandonment in albatross behavior, despite familiarity with separation. When born, the baby will remain with one parent, while the other parent flies the ocean to bring back food. And when the chick is ready, it will unceremoniously leave the nest by itself, setting sail for about six years before it heads back to land to find a love.

This type of lasting love, the same kind I want, feels impossible. It feels like something people made up to justify marriage today with its basis in romantic ideals. I do not have great role models. My parents are divorced and rightfully so. But my father cried when he married my mother, a fact I always interpreted as magical. At a recent wedding I attended, the bride and groom cried while delivering their vows. Several months later, she was filing for divorce because he cheated on her even before the wedding. They had been together for nine years. Is it possible to find something I am not even sure exists? Despite my skepticism, I do not know how to stop looking at each person I am with, at my present partner, as my possible forever.

To be an albatross is to be an island, a paradise. I want to be a heaven for someone, the person someone always wants to come home to, no matter how long they have been away.

In my living room, a few months into our relationship, I taught my partner how to waltz to the soundtrack of My Fair Lady. Afterwards he wanted to keep waltzing around in small circles, letting me step on his feet even though I had shown him the moves, putting the songs on repeat. There were times in those early months, when everything was new and perfect and glowing, where he looked at me and frowned while smiling, like he was considering something immensely sad during a happy moment. He looked at me and I thought he would marry me. Sometimes I think he really would. Of course, it is far too early to tell, to think the thought. It is an imagining, a vision caught from the corner of my eye, a mistake to acknowledge. It’s still too early, and for now we will simply have to keep on dancing.

From Mea Culpa to Me Too

20 November 2019
Categories: Nonfiction

I am teaching Sherman Alexie’s collection The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven in my Native American literature class the week the sexual harassment scandal breaks. Feeling as if I must come clean by acknowledging these developments, I photocopy the Jezebel article, much of which is screencaps of Litsa Dremousis’ Twitter feed. It’s less an article than the echoes of a blown whistle.

I fear the weight that the allegations will throw over our 80-minute seminar, so I write “Jezebel” mysteriously as the fourth and last agenda item for the day. By postponing the inevitable, I put myself in the position of dissembling, of running the first hour of this class as if all is normal. We begin, as has been our pattern for this book, with making little plot maps on index cards for each story we have read, seeking to understand their mechanisms of climax, resolution, and revelation.

Then we take all the cards for all the stories we’ve read and sort them into piles or continuums. If this whole exercise sounds like a thinly disguised plot review, you are not far off: sometimes even my upper-level English classes feel like an exercise in dragging reading comprehension out of half the class by sheer force of will.

But this kind of slow, deliberate tracking of connections can yield insights that my most voracious and adoring previous readings did not. Just last week, thanks to our index cards and chronologies, I had arrived at a new theory, aligning details that had escaped me on all those other readings: Jimmy, James Many Horses from “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor,” is the baby James from “Jesus Christ’s Half-Brother is Alive and Well on the Spokane Indian Reservation,” the child thrown from the window of a burning house by his father Frank Many Horses onto his head and raised by the man who almost caught him. I didn’t know it was possible for my love of either story to increase, but as these two stories snapped into alignment, they both lifted my heart a little more. In “Jesus Christ’s Half-Brother,” the narrator maintains faith in his son James’ prescience even after years of muteness suggest he has been terribly brain-damaged in his fall, thus walking an ambiguous line between fatherly pride and delusion. Though he reports that James begins speaking, finally, at age six, the other characters and the reader don’t quite know whether to believe him. Bring the story alongside “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor,” though, and the father’s faith is proved merited. Jimmy’s inability to shut up is not just a fatal flaw but a miraculous gift wrested from the world’s cruelty.

After last Thursday’s elation, here I am on Tuesday with the Jezebel articles stacked guiltily face down on the desk behind me. After we finish the plot maps, we work together to sort the cards. I have tried to come up with a few new prompts for each meeting, asking things like: Who is narrating? What’s the overall chronology? Which stories are most hopeful?

Today one of my students offers the question, “Which ones have female characters?” We bend over the cards. Strong and well-developed female characters like the Aunt in “The Fun House” or Norma in “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor” and “Somebody Kept Saying Powwow” are rare, but women do at least appear in most of the stories. I propose we try the Bechdel test: does this story have two female characters who have a conversation about something other than a man?

Not one story passes.

Now I get an inkling of it: perhaps Alexie was always just as advertised. The male narrators and main characters in The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven are alcoholic, emotionally inarticulate when it matters, and occasionally terribly cruel.

In the story, “Amusements,” the narrator Victor places an incoherently drunk Spokane man on a roller coaster and leaves him vomiting under the gaze of laughing white carnival-goers and hostile security guards. The story ends when Victor flees into a hall of mirrors and feels the sensation of “the folding shut of the good part of [his] past.”

Victor knows he is lost to himself because he saw Dirty Joe in need of care and betrayed him instead. Somehow this clarity of self-reflection produced hope in me and my students that Victor would find his way back to goodness and become the man he knows he could be.

Alexie’s ability to write a character capable of such self-conviction allowed us to imagine that Alexie lived in that goodness, but he never promised us that, did he?  I am reminded of Fuckhead, the narrator of Denis Johnson’s famous short story “Car Crash While Hitchhiking,” who turns to the reader at the last sentence, and, in the place where the narrative structure begs for a moment of revelation, tosses out, “And you, you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you.”

I have been this ridiculous person through more than a decade of teaching and loving Alexie. (I nearly deleted this metonym, this habit of writing “Alexie” when I mean “Alexie’s work,” but I really do mean I loved Alexie, don’t I?)  I feel as if I have betrayed my students by holding this man and his work out to them.

At last comes the moment to hand out the article. I let the class read, and then invite my students to reflect with me upon what the revelations mean for teaching Alexie’s work in the future. Should I stop?  Should I replace these books with books by writers who have not exploited, intimidated and held back female colleagues?

My students are not all that upset. They show a strong willingness to separate the work from the man and quickly present literary-historical significance as an argument for continuing to teach Alexie’s work. They are disappointed but not surprised. One student conflates the allegations of harassment with rape allegations and makes the same argument anyway, as if rape is all she ever expected from a public figure.

I leave the classroom disappointed by the discussion. I’m the only one in agony, and my students are not going to wrestle this out for me.

Alexie’s fall strikes home for me because in some ways I wound up here—a white Americanist generalist who leapt eagerly to teach the Native American literature class when my dean was on the point of mothballing it—because of Alexie. He was the only Native American writer I read as an undergraduate. Over the years, he led me to others. I first read an Alexie story in an MFA-style fiction workshop my Junior year. Void of contexts like indigenous history or the Native American Literary Renaissance, he was presented to us as exemplary for his humor, his breath-straining titles, his pitch-perfect tonal control and ironic distance in the post-modernist bad boy tradition of Donald Barthelme, Denis Johnson, and my own professor. In retrospect, it is no surprise that the advisor who slapped my ass at my thesis reading and handed me off seamlessly to the MFA director who groped half the cohort chose Alexie to be in his boys’ club.

The creeps all know and support each other.

As I teach first-year composition that afternoon, the lesson is related to source documentation for research papers. But facing me from the back wall of the classroom are colorful fair copies of the list poems my students wrote in response to a moment near the end of Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. I was so proud of their poems; students from my other classes couldn’t resist coming to read them. Now I want to tear them down. They’re inspired by that moment where Arnold says:

     I realized that, sure, I was a Spokane Indian. I belonged to that tribe. But I also belonged to the tribe of American      immigrants. And to the tribe of basketball players. And to the tribe of bookworms. And the tribe of cartoonists…

He goes on for fourteen “tribes.”  The “I realized” that starts off this passage signals a moment of revelation: Here Junior sums up what he now knows. It’s a moment freighted with meaning, as in, it unfolds with all the subtlety of a fourteen-car freight train. And I was okay with that. I valued this book as a teaching text because it has so many soapbox moments, ready-made thesis statements that invite students to assemble constellations of other text evidence around them to produce their own readings of the novel: rich and infinitely varied.

This passage had been making a liar out of me for years. I encouraged students to engage with it and write their own list poems in response because the poetic form is approachable and can produce such good results, but I was deeply skeptical of what’s going on in the passage itself. Junior’s declaration serves as a profoundly unradical moment, like the traditional marriage at the end of a Shakespeare comedy that re-contains all those wild flights of cross-dressing and female empowerment. No one ever faced genocide for loving salsa, but Alexie’s list places identities with profound social consequences–Spokane identity; poverty–on par with chosen and unstigmatized categories like being a cartoonist or a basketball player or a “tortilla chips-and-salsa lover.”

There are many moments when Alexie’s novel challenges its readers about racism, classism, systemic injustice, and cultural appropriation. My white students especially often seem to experience the “tribe of” passage as an olive branch extended to them by Alexie after so much uncomfortable prodding. I mistrust it because it’s placating.

And yet. Alexie’s long list is a vital reminder that identity is intersectional and no one should be reduced to a single identity marker. In its eagerness to welcome everyone into a “tribe,” Alexie’s poem opens up space for readers to think of themselves as having multiple identities, too, and to dream of living in a world where all those identities are honored.

When I asked my students to write their own list poems in response, they shone. Using the stem, “I belong to the tribe of,” they proclaimed their struggles, their heritage, their politics, sexuality, and dreams. I have room to teach just one novel in the yearlong first-year writing sequence and I used The Absolutely True Diary because, though it’s about a high-schooler, I have found no book that better mirrors the alienation and precarity of venturing into the world as a low-income, first-generation college student. This book had a power to call my students forward to trust me and each other with sacred parts of themselves. Every year, someone came out. Every year, I learned something lovely about my students. This year, I found an unfamiliar word–philomath, lover of learning–in a student’s list and learned that I belong to this tribe, too.

Alexie called forth this beauty from my students, and all the while, he wasn’t worthy of their trust. He wasn’t safe.

Another conversation about Alexie’s misdeeds occurs organically in my Literary Criticism class at the end of the day. Students in that class had read Alexie with me as first-years up to two years before, had had this experience of letting Alexie help us forge a classroom community of mutual care. Their agonized groans and stricken expressions mirror my own reactions. Like me, they’d been carrying an idealized Alexie in their hearts like a friend, perking their ears to his new work and bringing me news items and radio stories about his career. And now this. They feel the news has taken something from them.

I am still wrestling it out that night with my husband on the long, dark, and icy drive home from our weekly martial arts class in Marquette. I sent him the audiobook of Alexie reading The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian early in our friendship, just as it tipped over into courtship. I dropped that book in the mail like it was a guidebook to my values, a window into my life’s work. I believe that education can be a ladder to our dreams. I believe that people can love each other across their differences. He took to the book as I hoped he would, laughed through it with his daughter, perhaps even understood what I meant by sending it to him. So the rural college professor courted the Detroit steelworker.

There are still fifty miles of dark road ahead of us, and the conversation churns, seeming only to roil up new regrets. He expresses sorrow for what we lose in Alexie as a model for craft and skill if the world turns its back on him. We are skating the thin ice of a marriage across political difference, the libertarian and the left-of-liberal. His media feed algorithms have spent the past few weeks telling him that Me Too is a witch-hunt, but I can’t blame him for wanting to snatch Alexie back from its flames. I wish I could, too. Or, rather, I wish Alexie hadn’t deserved this fall. Is there any way this isn’t true? he asks. I asked myself that, too. I am awaiting the investigative piece from NPR; I am awaiting a statement from Alexie, but I am not optimistic.

Our conversation circles outward in anecdote and analogy. I recall academic mentors whose behavior toward me or my peers had veered into sexual harassment. As we speak, there’s an awaiting tension in me, a nearness to an abyss. I want my husband to see Alexie’s behavior as a big deal. A failure to do so would feel like a failure to have my back. I feel this way even though I have continued to maintain politeness and even honor some of the harassers in my own life for the kind things they did for me when they weren’t groping me. But tonight, after Alexie, during Me Too, it feels important to set them all beyond the pale.

As a rhetorical technique, “How would you feel if this affected your wife, mother, daughter, or other female property?” is a load of nonsense, an appeal to empathy pitched for the fatally narcissistic. But in the arc of a lifetime, a man can learn a lot from daughters. I know that the experience of raising two daughters alone helped my beloved grow into the beliefs and convictions that made him feminist in all but name long before we met.

“Would you study martial arts with someone you couldn’t trust to teach the girls?” I ask.

In this shared martial arts world, we both recognize how it narrows women’s opportunities when some teachers can only safely mentor men. And from those teachers, he is firm, even men should turn their backs.

And this is our answer, isn’t it?  A clear answer can still be a painful one. My mind is already running over my bookshelves and long lists of possible replacement texts for my first-years, but the community we will build around those texts is an as-yet unknown alchemy. I still feel trapped by my Alexie quandary, by the car and the darkness and the road that demands attention and could turn slick and perilous at any moment.

Giving up on talk, we turn to an audiobook, picking up where we left off with Louise Erdrich reading her recent novel, LaRose. My Native American literature class read it some weeks ago, but I’m revisiting it now with him. In a few minutes we come to a passage that I think of as one of the tenderest descriptions of love ever penned. In it Wolfred imagines how he will care for the body of LaRose, his wife:

He closed his eyes, saw himself mixing a little mud up with his fingers. He would touch her face, smear the mud across her cheeks, down her nose, across her forehead, the blunt tip of her chin. He didn’t want his beloved to be hurt in the next life, by men, the way she had been in this life.

In imagining the gesture, Wolfred maps the treasured facial features he plans to obscure and recalls a past gesture when he strove unsuccessfully to prevent the girl LaRose’s rape by the fur trader Mackinnon. In LaRose’s adulthood, the two built a beautiful life despite the way the traumas of rape and family violence marked and stalked her. Wolfred’s love understood, acknowledged, and was utterly and tenderly present for her trauma.

Sometimes we aim far, far too low with our lessons.

I once had a flashback in my husband’s arms. I gritted my will and wished it away. It would pass; we would make love. My will and willingness remained even if my mind’s eye had, briefly, betrayed me.

He took his lips from mine and asked if I was all right. I crushed myself closer into his arms, stunned, seen.

Later, afterwards, cooing and wondering, I asked him how he’d known. “I don’t know. I just felt your energy change,” he said.

I still think back on this moment in awe. What allowed him to feel the cold lightning of that other moment running through my blood?  The empathetic leap involved nearly denies the possibility of articulability; the twice-naked intimacy of the setting makes it yet more difficult for me to write of it, but I know I must try because I walked this earth for more than thirty years without imagining that I might be granted such care from this lover who asked for–who gently invited–my whole heart, wounds and all.

Our public conversation lags somewhere behind, out in the realm of establishing the basics of good bedroom manners like enthusiastic consent and ungrudging mutual responsibility for birth control and sexual health. It’s still seeking a negative peace, a no-rape truce between the sexes. This, of course, remains vital work, but it is triage work.

What if I asked more of the books I gave my heart to?  Instead of hoping only to see badly-behaving characters like Alexie’s Victor eloquently crucify themselves, what if I sought out texts that model tender and generative relationships?  I know they’re out there, a stealthy canon of tenderness, a library of ideas for how to be more than self-aware of being toxically masculine. Erdrich contributes one image in LaRose as Wolfred lives out his 19th-century clerk’s version of masculinity. Today’s luminous queer poet Danez Smith expresses similar nurturance in their poem, “Principles,” when they write:

      Oh lords, above us and within
      let us be useful to our neighbors
      & tender their wounds.

Smith’s words are the prayer of my heart. Not all our stories need to be of men with demons imperfectly held at bay. Some few might even teach us how to be, as Smith puts it, “more bandage than blade.”  For all that is wrong in this world, not all our forebears are monstrous. Some are tender, and we might yet learn to walk in their ways.
 
 
Coda

Soon it will be two years since February, 2018, when Me Too broke over Sherman Alexie. That February 28th, he issued a statement painting Litsa Dremousis as a jilted ex-lover, but admitting, in regards to his many other accusers, “There are women telling the truth about my behavior.”  He apologized to people he had hurt, and then he went quiet.

In an interview with Time in 2012, Alexie was invited to ponder, “Why… are there not more Sherman Alexies?”   By this the interviewer meant, why are there not other wildly successful Native American writers, a younger generation coming up behind?  Alexie did not take the opportunity to praise any lesser known writer. Instead, he quickly raised and then dismissed the idea that racism in the publishing industry was to blame.  “Are you kidding?” he asked. “Publishers would die if a manuscript came flying into their offices that reminded them of me or Louise Erdrich . . . They would be dancing. But it just hasn’t happened, and I don’t know why.”  This swift dismissal of the talents of other native writers came from a man who, by NPR’s account, solicited manuscripts from at least one up-and-coming indigenous poet as a prelude to soliciting sex, and who claims to “have no recollection of physically or verbally threatening anybody or their careers,” a nicety of phrasing that still admits the possible veracity of numerous accounts of such threats.

I could not continue to hold out Alexie to my students, nor ask them to buy forty copies of his book every spring.  It was easier, at the last, to turn my back on Alexie the man than it was to give up the Absolutely True Diary.  I had to mourn the way my students and I lived with the book and used it to help us know each other. At some very fundamental level, this is what fiction is for: practice caring about a character; learn to care about your neighbor.  This is the idealistic contract that brings me to work each day. In the end, these communities of readers are just another wider and more diffuse circle of trust that Alexie chose to violate. I wonder, as I so often do of violators, if he ever saw the beauty that was possible in that circle.

My first-year students and I now read Brown Girl in the Ring by Nalo Hopkinson.  I try not to think of this text as a replacement for Alexie’s novel. It has its own entirely different strengths, among them a brave portrayal of a teenaged mother with ambivalent feelings towards her son who comes to terms with her new role and finds power in her identity in the Caribbean diaspora.  All of this takes place in a near-future dystopian Toronto plagued by drugs and healthcare inequality but enriched by resilient, cooperative multi-ethnic neighborhoods seeking to forge a new life in the ruins of the shattered old economy. I am still learning to guide my students down the many rich avenues for discussion that this book opens.

When my Native American literature class comes around again on its two-year cycle this spring, I will teach it without Alexie.  There, I don’t think I’ll miss him much. How could I, with a canon and a contemporary scene so rich? I will have Silko and Erdrich, of course, and also the life-affirming, intricate poetry of Margaret Noodin. I will have Rebecca Roanhorse’s post-apocalyptic novel Trail of Lightning with its tough female monster hunter and Stephen Graham Jones’ working-class werewolves in Mongrels, and the historiography of Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz and essays by Tiffany Midge in her inimitably titled collection, Bury My Heart at Chuck E. Cheese’s.  There will even be Antíkoni, Beth Piatote’s contemporary play that reimagines Antigone through the lens of Nez Perce characters considering the indigenous remains in museum holdings, just published this October in her collection The Beadworkers. Who needs another Sherman Alexie when there are so many other voices, writers who remake language, worlds and genres with a brilliance and courage that makes more room for all of us to live inside?

The Night After Newtown

20 November 2019
Categories: Nonfiction

a father high and tight,
    a father reservoir of poses
                               — Farid Matuk, “A Daughter Having Been of the Type”

On her first day of kindergarten, A. is unusually quiet in the back seat. Leaning forward in her booster, swallowing her words, she tells me she’s a little nervous. “So am I,” I reply, too quickly. Jolted back into character, her retort is even faster, “Daddy, are you nervous for me or for you?”

Most everyone who’s lived in this country has a gun story though they may hesitate to tell it, not knowing in whose company it’s prudent to click off the safety, to let the words burst from their dark chambers. This is a gun story. Or, it’s the story of a gun story’s ripple effects, a story of being struck by the blast fragments of a massacre.

A few months into her kindergarten year, A. begins asking a nightly question of me or S., whoever’s singing her bedtime songs. Just after the medley ends and I wish her a good sleep, she pleads, “Can you check on me in the middle of the night and in five minutes?”

Most everyone who’s lived in Brooklyn and isn’t filthy rich has a landlord story, and they rarely hesitate to tell it. This is a landlord story, its outlines coming into focus half a decade later. Or, it’s the story of a super, B., the son of our absentee landlord, the story of a live-in super who broke into our apartment at 2am the night after Newtown demanding that we produce A.’s three-month old body. Like any Brooklyn story, it’s haunted by elsewheres: Connecticut, Hollywood, Virginia, South Carolina. It’s less a story about good guys and bad than of sickness and eruption. Most of all, it’s a story of father acts for the end of the world.

“Filthy rich” was uttered regularly when I was growing up in the eighties. Its stench isn’t much in the air anymore. I still can’t tell if it drags or flatters. Or, like a participation trophy, both. No matter, the landlord story makes roommates of rich and filthy.

“In the middle of the night and in five minutes.” A.’s phrasing transposes time. Why does middle of the night precede five minutes? Had my anxiety encoded her syntax?

By the time A. starts kindergarten, we’re living in a modest-for-South-Carolina bungalow. When she was born on a sunny September 11, we were living in a shabby but spacious apartment on a leafy block in Boerum Hill. From the time S. was growing A. inside her to A.’s first day in kindergarten, we’d lived in five places: three in Brooklyn, one in Connecticut, one in South Carolina. Ours weren’t the moves required of the poor, nor the real-estate portfolio of the filthy rich. Our handful of shitty landlords was academic.

Though A. posed “Daddy, are you nervous for me or for you” as a question, her giggle betrayed the assertion haunting her deference, just as my laughter conveyed allegiance to her authority.

S. was seven months pregnant when we lost out on a huge-for-Brooklyn-apartment. We’d put up the arm and the leg for the first and last months’ rent and security deposit. Then we’d asked the landlord to certify that the bed bugs were in fact eradicated. It’d be great, too, if they’d deal with the lead paint on the windows. All giveaways of S.’s pregnancy, which we had whitely failed to hide. The landlord balked, not bothering to couch his reason in euphemism.

Our previous landlord was a self-proclaimed philosopher, a 9/11 conspiracy theorist who’d drop by unannounced with his PowerPoint slides. Neither shitty landlord story endures beyond these paragraphs. We didn’t know this then, so I created on my laptop the folder “Prospect Heights Lawsuit.” I never opened it again, until I sat down to write this story.

After dropping A. at kindergarten one morning, I trail a bumper sticker: GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, ABORTION CLINICS DO.

Two months into kindergarten, we receive an email from A.’s teacher: “Today,” she reports, “we had our first school-wide Active Threat Drill.” After “locking doors, turning off lights, covering the window of our door, and moving to a hidden spot,” she writes, “we joined in a huddle in the back corner of the room.”

B. was the live-in super of the shabby apartment we’d lucked into after rejection by the landlord of bed bugs and lead windows. B.’s floor was our ceiling, his pacing footsteps the heartbeat of our brownstone. Unusually responsive to our calls and complaints, he’d occasionally show up at the door shirtless. So odd, we thought, though he was hot, S. would report, and it was a sweltering August that month when we were settling in before A.’s birth.

“Chill out, Daddy,” A. begins saying, with some regularity, during her kindergarten year. Her mother’s cipher, her loyal mouthpiece, A.’s trochaic feet trample over my chest, grinding their gears inside the grooves of my iambic insistence to myself: relax, relax, relax.

B. was an aspiring twenty-something filmmaker. His mother had been in the movies, even costarring in a Robert Redford feature in the eighties. His father had grown up in the building in the seventies, and the film producer had apparently inherited it from his parents. We sent our rent checks to an address in Malibu.

“I truly believe that my job is to keep your children safe as well as keep them feeling safe,” A.’s teacher explains of their “hidden spot” and “huddle.” “We do not discuss any ‘what if’ scenarios.”

Does aspiring, that telling qualifier, cede to film’s ability to hold us captive to its worldmaking sensorium, the mangle and remand of its technicolor dreaming, its dearth of offramps and pop-up gardens, the Hollywood sign buckshot with ten-million cinematic shoot-outs?

My mother tells the story of psychologists at Virginia Tech calling her conducting a study of local parents. It must’ve been 1982, I would’ve been in kindergarten, my brother in preschool. Her story is hard to believe but so are so many we know to be true. The researcher asked if she could save only one of her children, which she would keep. She protested, she insists, then she answered. Still she won’t say how, only that she complied. I suspect my mother’s shame isn’t in the choice but in having chosen.

Another South Carolina bumper sticker: THERE ARE TWO WAYS TO DIE, NEITHER ONE IS TAUGHT IN SCHOOLS. Icon of Bible. Icon of Gun. The demented epigram cracking the code to the country.

Soon after I moved to Brooklyn, my hometown was ripped apart by the mass shooting. I hadn’t grown up with guns, but I’d grown up gun adjacent. With high school friends, I’d shot a .38 and a .45 in the woods and at abandoned mining sites, redneck style. When Virginia Tech went down, when my alma mater whose professors had put my mother to the test entered the litany of cursed names, my panic for family and friends took an uncanny form: I was back in the woods, reeling from the recoil and the horrible ringing in my ears, adrenaline setting the trees aflame.

If B. had been seeing the world clearly—that is, as his father’s super—he would’ve rejected the expecting couple. The middle-of-the-night crying, the strollers in stairwells, the vigilant parents. He would’ve picked instead the younger couple we passed on the stoop after our Craig’s List call. Had he missed S.’s obvious belly? Or had his kindness outstripped his owner’s reason? B. defied the super-landlord stereotypes and not always in these good ways. He couldn’t fix a thing. He hired his buddies, who couldn’t either. He disappeared for days on film shoots, or so he said, the knockout twenty-somethings bounding up and down the stairs coy on his whereabouts.

Another sticker on the cab window of a neighborhood truck: BODY PIERCING BY GLOCK.

From the jump, A. was an intense child. In early photos her eyes resemble dark lasers. The parenting books called her a “lark,” the early riser who chirps at dawn. An Australian friend deemed her a “ripper,” the child whose engine purrs deep and runs long. I became my-daughter-the-ripper’s father as my-worried-mother’s son, but my reservoir of father poses, from freaking-out to play-it-cool, ran dry the night after Newtown, the December night the red tide of paranoia surged into the loud, filthy, leafy-windowed apartment that was not ours, yet still our sanctuary.

The night after Newtown, around 2am, our apartment door started rattling. We bolted upright in our too-small bed, A. between us, sated from nursing, the door clear in our line of sight.

Fuck, fuck, someone’s breaking in. What, what the…? With a key.

Then B. burst in, eyes throbbing, casing the rooms like wobbly flashlights. My first thought gunman in the building, then fire, in seconds S. asking, “B., what’s wrong, what’s wrong, WHAT’S WRONG, what is it, what IS it?” S. growing frantic, B. and S. mirrors of each other, panicked invader, panicked victim under his glare.

In the sleepless first month of A.’s life, I’d driven with my visiting father to the slammed Red Hook IKEA to replace our too-small bed with a queen. We assembled the bed before realizing Oh shit, it’s a standard. Later, wondering about the other obvious things I’d missed.

The night after Newtown, at 2am, S. and I thunderstruck in bed, B. searching the apartment, heading straight for A.’s room, which she hadn’t yet slept in, still in a bassinet beside our bed or between us in ours. Saying loudly, urgently, as if grinding into gear, yet not quite shouting, “Where is the baby, where is the baby, WHERE IS THE BABY? I need to touch the baby.” The word need hard as tempered steel, urgent as a gushing neck wound. “She’s RIGHT here,” S. pleading, nodding to A. between us in the bed.

The night after Newtown, the night after the white gunman killed twenty kindergartners in a Connecticut public elementary school, the night after, about 2am, S. had just finished nursing, and a filmmaker-super was racing around our apartment, demanding we bring him our child.

Connecticut, the state of the Sandy Hook tragedy and its bone-chilling hoaxers, the state with the nation’s worst inequality, the state the New York Times calls “a cradle of the American gun industry,” the state of myriad empires of menace and masculinity: Colt, ESPN, Ruger, insurance, hedge funds. Between Connecticut and South Carolina all unitedstatesians live.

Soon our super stood at the foot of our IKEA bed, A. wedged between us, as far as we could tell, asleep. His eyes pinpricks of carnival light, his hands shaking the bars of an imaginary cage, “I need to touch the baby,” spurting three rapid-fire times, “I need to touch the baby, I need to touch the baby,” that word need a coil of barbed wire ripping through his pretty lips.

I followed this morning a sedan: GUNS SAVE LIVES. Ergo, Landlords save renters.

Then that night after Newtown, B. reached into our bed, our stunned silence tacit permission, touching A. on the belly. He touched her ribs, felt her toes through her footed pajamas. Then he cackled and turned. I remember my exposed knees and elbows, my boxers and undershirt. That laugh, though, it lodged inside my left eardrum, the one closest to his beautiful mouth, lodged there like existential tinnitus. Our initial thought, super fucked up on some bad shit, extinguished by the recognition of psychosis. Held in for years, that laugh, held in and let go.

Was this the moment the gunrunners relentlessly promote? Just wait until your time comes, until you have to protect your family. Testimonial after testimonial, all with the same scripted ending: a gun saved my life. For a hot minute, I wished I’d had a gun; afterward, relief that I hadn’t. Maybe in my father bones I finally felt it, the NRA’s silver marketing bullet. Yet it’s not about a good guy with a gun stopping a bad guy with a gun. In that perverse duel, only the duel itself is preserved. It’s about power and race and money. The old story of white innocence.

I think constantly about these ripples. I don’t equate the Sandy Hook families, the Virginia Tech families, the Charleston families, the many-more-places families, with my family’s story. Consider the work being done in my about: I think about it. Not: I live it every minute. Not: I feel it every second. In my bones. In my coffee. In my aching toenails. In the softness of my pillow.

In bemoaning “the poetic inflation around prepositions,” the poet C.D. Wright would’ve said that my about is a flimsy doorstop. It gets in the way just enough to prevent the light from coming in. Still it’s easily kicked aside. “The verb works the hardest,” Wright concluded. “It should be the best paid.” This verb then: Stand. If I stand my ground against the gunrunners and landlords, Fed-Up Reader, will you join me?

I replay the what-ifs. Our super breaks into our apartment, gun at his side, demanding to touch our baby. Or I meet him at the door, adrenaline like a jackhammer, Glock at his temple. Does my gun defuse the delusions gripping his body? Or does it push him further? In B.’s mind, I’m the threat to the baby. What if, steel to his earlobe, he doesn’t turn and leave? What if, gun between his shoulder blades, I amplify his agitation, pushing his delusions all the way into the no-way-back horizon of menace?

Possible tabloid headline: ASPIRING FILMMAKER, A RECENT COLUMBIA GRAD, SHOT IN ALLEGED BREAK-IN ON LEAFY BROOKLYN BLOCK, DETAILS HAZY.

A few years after the break-in, during our two years living in Connecticut, A. started asking at bedtime: “Tell me about your bad guys.” At first we were floored. Then, “My bad guys wear suits,” S. began, “they hurt the earth, they poison the air, they sell guns like candy.”

Alternative headline: HUNTER COLLEGE PROFESSOR, A NEW FATHER, SHOT IN SUPER BREAK-IN ON LEAFY BROOKLYN BLOCK, DETAILS HAZY.

That winter, in Connecticut, I began honing my own story, minding A.’s demand that my bad guys must be different than S.’s. I thought of landlords and gunrunners. I thought of CEOs. I never once thought of B. Then, commuting into the city, who my bad guys were hit me. When the train stopped on the platform in filthy rich Darien, I spotted the advertisement for WWW.MYHOMEPAY.COM. Against a white background, a billboard-large baby cried: THAT FEELING YOU GET WHEN THE IRS AUDITS YOUR NANNY TAXES. I knew that the ad’s “you” was another father, that my bad guys were other fathers, fathers who flaunt their plunder, fathers whose children cry over their spilled millions.

Because B.’s break came the night after the Sandy Hook shooting, we surmised that he was “triggered” by the news. Perhaps he wanted to ensure A.’s safety. Perhaps the story of another “troubled” white kid losing his shit made him lose his, their sickness the country’s and so utterly their own. Yet I’m unnerved by the form of this supposition. Used this way, “trigger” penetrates the language, lodging gun culture deeper in its shared body. The “trigger warning” draws its own blood, as does the attribution of gun violence to mental illness. As a father high and tight, when A.’s engine cools and the ripper sleeps hard and deep, I burn hot into the red night. Here, like anywhere in the country, there is no “hidden spot.” Here, as anywhere, metaphors can be deadly.

Sometimes a story like this one and a billboard like Darien’s reveals exactly who your enemies are. You wonder how you could’ve gone for so long without seeing them clearly. The story exposes the false identifications that pierce your body and bleed it dry and then blame you for going into battle unarmed. The story reminds you of the men in menace, of the at her in father. I struggled to say to A. that my bad guys are other fathers with their own sometimes tender panics for a son or a daughter, with their fidelity to property and progeny explosive as loaded double barrels. So I began simply, “My bad guys wear suits, they don’t share with others.”

Two days after Newtown, on a crisp December morning hours after the break-in, hours after we’d barred the door with our kitchen table, we watched from our third-floor window B. getting into a black car, stoop-side, with a man and a woman we’d later learn were his parents. There were suitcases. It appeared to be an airport trip.

Another sticker: ASSAULT LIFE. The full-size rifle transforms the logo for the clothing company SALT LIFE. Mass murder as lifestyle, as branding exercise, as a day at the beach.

B. was a sick kid, but he didn’t medicate with a gun. This says something about him, where he came from, about the city and block we shared. About our luck. About the second chances he’d get. So, too, it’s telling, my calling him a kid. “Nervous breakdown,” his parents said by phone from their huddle in Malibu. That tabloid euphemism off limits for the black and brown.

“THAT night?” his parents gasped, “We were with him in the apartment.” They’d come to bring him home, to get him treatment. Said by phone he’s not coming back, “New York isn’t good for him, thanks for telling us, thanks for not calling the cops.” “Of course,” they said, “whatever you need.”

Most nights in the six years since the break-in, the urge creeps up my arches, nails my hamstrings, churns in my stomach, spins my head like a poltergeist, that urge to jiggle A.’s door, to see her, to palm her belly, my hand moving up and down with her breath. Each time I turn that knob, B., I am you, you are rattling inside my brain, I too need to touch the baby.

A month after the break-in, B. returned despite the sworn promise from his landlord-filmmaker parents. The catch: his father came with him. “Just in case,” his father the landlord deadpanned, “he’s better but…” Those words of many a gunrunner, just in case. In this scenario, I can’t figure which is the gun and which the safety: the landlord-father or the super-son? Which our protector, which the son’s? “Sometimes,” the landlord-father pronounced, “bad things happen between good people.”

I’ll spare you, Patient Reader, the details of our scrambling departure, of B.’s father’s turn to type—the landlord who cares first for his property, then for his wayward progeny, the landlord who sees little daylight between the two. Of him grudgingly letting us out of our lease, given the “inconvenience” we were causing him. Of the landlord’s visits to our apartment to scope out repairs for the next tenant, the father haunting the landlord’s body bragging about B.’s newest films for product X and brand Y. Of the price we paid for the high-rise doorman building, the only apartment available immediately and with seeming safety in its corporate anonymity. In the months to come, of the father’s withholding of, and chipping away so pettily and obliviously at, our security deposit. Mostly against the force of our own renter-parent bodies, of the way we began to feel that B. was the real victim, the super-son abused by his landlord-father.

The next tenant, I dread to report, was a young couple with a baby. Some stories cannot be passed on, no matter the effort to form a huddle on the landlord’s property for the passing.

Another: IF JESUS HAD A GUN HE WOULD HAVE LIVED. Not the savior who dies for the sins of others, the savior who massacres the sinners. From the crucifix, Jesus flexes, Assault Life-style.

The night after Newtown, that night which would bring out the grotesque-even-for-America Sandy Hook hoaxers, the night B. touched our three-month old on her breath-heaving belly, he laughed and turned away. Frozen in a mixture of terror and bewilderment, by this point we’d become at least as concerned for his safety as we were for A. and ourselves.

For just after he giggled with an otherworldly calm, B. stared into my eyes and then into S.’s and said, “You all are lovely people have a great life.” Spinning on his heels, he walked to the door, opened and closed it, and locked it from the outside.

I remain a father high and tight, head in the tempest, panic bones clanging in their bag of skin, spine wound around the exposed nerves of each pending apocalypse. I come by it honestly, my mother a worrier by trade. Unlike her, I parent a single child. No false choice to deny, no interlocutor to disappoint. Unlike her, I pour into my only child’s gas tank the high-octane of all my words and poses of worry, a vast reservoir of love ever on the verge of rupture.

After B. returned, we studiously avoided him, as he surely skirted us. I crossed paths with him only once before we left. On the building’s stoop, when he tried to apologize, I cut him off. “B.,” I stammered, “we forgive you, it’s okay, it’s really okay, but I can’t talk about it.” Then I turned down the block, shaken and lanced with renter’s guilt, and he ducked into his father’s building.

A., we haven’t yet told you of B., and I’m not sure we will. I’m even less sure that this story I’m telling is the best way to tell you of your country. But we do tell you, at bedtime, when you ask about your latest bad guys, that you’re safe in your bed. What else, at that hour, could we say?

Yes, Gentle Reader, B. locked the door behind him. The good super returned, just in time. So far, nearing the end of A.’s kindergarten year, his farewell blessing has come good.

GRAVIDARUM

20 November 2019
Categories: Nonfiction

Secret

They talk with the lights off, / words kept in bedroom  dark so this  moment will  live
/  for only them.  They speak of finances and bedtime policies, /  whether they’ll need
to  move  for  more  space.  They  trade  names the  other  nixes  out  of  hand:  /  an old
boyfriend, a girl from fourth grade  who picked  /  her nose red every  other week,  the
Salinger character she’s always hated. /

                                                                                         He turns  quiet then, / and when she asks if
he’s mad she doesn’t like it,  he lies  /  there instead and shakes his  head No,  trying to
remember  what other names  /  he’d held  close to  him those  nights  he was  sixteen,
seventeen /  and lonely  in the  darkest  rooms  /  of his  heart,  waiting to touch,  to  be
touched. We’ll agree / on something. No need to rush, he manages and puts one hand
on hers,  his other  stretched  over her bellybutton,  settling  / for  comfort over truth. /
Who should we tell and when? he asks. /

                                                            Our moms first, maybe our fathers, too, in a few weeks. /
The rest, after we get into the second trimester,
 she says.  There’s much less chance…
She stops there, / the rest of her sentence she’d   rather not  catch  yellow light /  from
the streetlamp angling through the blinds. He knows enough to fill  /  the blanks,  but
he’s never  worried before  /  this  could be lifted from them.  He  takes  his hand  from
hers,    /   and  as  he  pretends  to  need  to  stretch  his  arm,   /  knocks on  the  wooden
nightstand, lightly,  /  a whispered plea meant to  be heard by  someone or something,
/ somewhere far outside this room.

 

Sleepless #1

No sleep, not tonight.  Not  for  her and  not  for  him.  /  Each  dose,  each  sip  of  water
heaves her  /  from bed to toilet.  She  has  become so   practiced  she  doesn’t need  /  to
flick the switch  to find  her way or have him hold  /  back her hair as bitterness  hurtles
out  her     throat.  /  She  hides   in  the   dark   like  he   can’t  /  hear   the  retching,  more
inhuman than familiar,  / as if suffering is only carried  through the world  /  by light. /

He wishes she would give him her  / blessing to surrender to the  long  day.  /  He  wills
himself  sleepless when he  hears her flush,  /  when she slips back in bed,  /  her  sharp
sighs exhaled into the air. He stirs,  at first,  making a show  /  he  might be   with her, /
minus the  throat burn  and acrid  taste  on her tongue,  /  her knees  bruised  from the
bathroom tile. He does not wake  /  enough to care for  her  how she  needs him.  He  is
already / breaking free.

 

Guilt

There is nothing  more he can  do for her;  they will  keep  her  /  for  observation,  give
her  more fluid,  /   inject  her  with  medication  as  she  needs.  / He still  doesn’t know
enough to be afraid  / or hopeful.  He  doesn’t  know whether  to  focus on  their  baby,
hanging / the photo on their fridge as reminder of what  will come, / or to  think  only
of her. All he knows  could fill  /  a thimble.  All he  knows  is maybe  /  tonight  he  will
stretch  across  their  bed as  he  hasn’t done  in weeks, /  fearful as he’s &been to touch
her  /  and wake her from whatever sleep she’s managed to make come.  /  It’s  enough
to have  him cry / Enough! because  how is it right to  look forward to a night’s peace /
when  she’s   hooked  to  a  machine  trying  to  guarantee  a  present   /   she  can barely
afford?

 

Deuteragonist

Alone to celebrate the third anniversary  of becoming a  couple,  /  he eases onto the
porch swing to rock / himself tired. He watches the neighbors’ houses begin to shut
themselves away:  / cars’   headlights  blink  twice,  horns  beep  them  locked,  / then
again when someone second-guesses. Houselights slump mute across the first floor,
/ the second once teeth are brushed, prayers said, books read,  / and moms and dads
slide into  bed,  fantasies  /  of a  second  wind never  winning  over  the quiet  /  dark
brings. /
                    This night, this moon shining lightly makes it easy for him to see  / himself
plain. He’s never been the protagonist, /  never comfortable as the center of his own
story. / Drifting to the outer limits of a party, a camera-shot, is second nature. She is
the life  /  of all the rooms they’ve ever entered,  he gladly playing second  /  fiddle as
she mingles, chiming in when she’s lost   /  a name or time, when she needs a second
opinion   /  on  that  Atlantic   article  she  loved  so  much she  couldn’t stop / reading
passages aloud to him. /

                                                     His first thought is love; / the second, loss. Overcome with
dread, he weeps and swears / his life for hers, witlessly, over and over again. / Soon
enough he will be pushed back to third, / this child forever her first mate.

 

Dreams

Each morning he works  to  remember  what  dreams  /  are like,  how  every   once  in  a
while he’d wake and feel  / such a dull ache  in his  center that it  hung  around  /   every
part of his day.  He’d  catch  a  glimpse  of a  boat  on the  dirt-green  Tennessee River,  /
hear   someone   say,   Oh,  I  give   up;  just  tell  me  what  he  did  next, / be  reminded of
his favorite teacher’s death that summer by the scent of Pall Malls, / and he’d be  taken
back: water flooding the boat  he’s  in,  /  sharks swimming near, but  still  he  refuses to
surface  /  because it’s  just too  hard.   And  then he’s  hovering /  over  his  own  funeral,
so many empty  seats it was easy  /  to see in the  front  row his first  crush, whose name
/ he saw so often in high   school  and  college  that  he believed  / the world  must  have
had a plan for them. /

                                                        He’s  had   nothing / like  this   for  a long  while.  No  need to
linger / in fantasy or nightmare when his mind hasn’t  taken / all  that’s  been  pent  up
in him and turned it / into  metaphor.  It’s enough   to  make  him  think /  everything’s
been backwards  /  because  how  could a  child hurt  its  mother  /  even before  its first
breath?  He’s long expected to  feel pain  /  in dreams,  which have always taunted  him
/ with what he’d never have, but not  in life, which  has  never  cared / to  acknowledge
him, one way or the other.

 

The Urban Wild Coyote Project

17 April 2019
Categories: Nonfiction

“Hiding in plain sight, this highly intelligent, creative, and adaptive animal has managed to thrive against the odds,” Kathryn says.

I lived in Boston and LA for almost twenty years. I never knew wild coyotes were there too. Her hands full of remote controls and disembodied eyes, Kathryn tells me that coyotes are entangled in many North American urban networks. Where the native tribes who cherished them were ousted or exterminated, coyotes survive.

It’s their refusal to lie down and die, their adaptability and elusiveness, their uncanny staying power even as white men came a-slaughtering and concrete swallowed up the fields, that earned coyotes their trickster-magic in Navajo legends. Ma’i is “a taboo-breaker,” wrote Barre Toelken, folk historian. Ma’i isn’t just a wiry animal, suspiciously doglike but too undoggedly wary. For the Navajo “there is no possible distinction between Ma’i, the animal we recognize as a coyote in the fields, and Ma’i, the personification of Coyote power in all coyotes, and Ma’i, the character (trickster, creator, and buffoon) in legends and tales, and Ma’i, the symbolic character of disorder in the myths.”

Philadelphia. Denver. Toronto. New York City boasts a research organization devoted to metropolitan coyotes. “They’re New Yorkers too!” says the Gotham Coyote Project. In Chicago, radio-collared coyotes work as civil servants, hunting rodents in the city center. In Tucson, biologists found that 50% of the city’s human residents enjoy seeing coyotes in their neighborhoods. Up to 85% believe coyotes pose no threat.

So when Kathryn tells me 400,000 coyotes are hunted down each year, I can’t wrap my head around it. That’s roughly the number of people in Atlanta, “mercilessly shot, tortuously caught in steel traps, their pups gassed inside their dens.” Chicago’s coyote cops live under constant surveillance. They’re executed if they overstep their usefulness. Crossbows and flying arsenic are involved. Also the most hideous decoy a musician can imagine.

Biologist Stanley Gehrt, an urban coyote specialist, says although cities have overtaken their home ranges, coyotes try their darndest to avoid humans. Problem is, wildlife refuges are nearly as anthropo-saturated as cities, what with outdoorsy amusements becoming ever trendier in the ever-expanding human population. Still, of the 181 coyotes Gehrt studied, only seven were called “nuisances” by their human neighbors, all seven were sick at the time, only one had ever attacked a pet, and in fact, Gehrt concluded, pets are way more likely than coyotes to attack humans. Officially, though, coyotes are vermin. That word, redolent of enmity and filth, offers illusory justification for those 400,000 painful deaths.

Talk abounds about coyotes “colonizing” “our” cities. But the fact is coyotes are indigenous to North America. Like the indigenous human tribes who no longer roam the lands of their ancestors, coyotes are driven or exterminated from those same lands for the same reasons: “they” are not “us,” yet they’re enough like us—cunning, resourceful, enigmatic—that it’s easy to despise and fear their differences.

Kathryn Eddy wants to change that.

                                                                                               

I used to be a serious pianist. I played underground composers’ experimental works. That explains, in part, why I didn’t get many gigs. I met Kathryn at a convention of artists and writers who actually like weird experiments in border-busting art. She was born in Atlanta. She calls herself a “non-medium-specific” artist-activist. So although she trained as a painter, she works with sound, collage, sculpture, wallpaper, closets, paint, tables, video, and more. And for her there’s no distinction between making art and doing animal activism. Both practices are her. They’re Kathryn’s mode of being-in-the-world. She couldn’t make a requiem for her late husband without recordings of ewes and lambs who’d been separated from each other by a farmer. She couldn’t just say, as she said to me, “Chickens are terribly misunderstood”; she made a twelve-track sound artwork from cluckcluckcluckbaGAW. These days, in her Urban Wild Coyote Project, she’s turning noisy hunting decoys into vocal animal advocates.

                                                                                               

The most hideous decoy a musician can imagine. Enter the sonic “game caller,” a machine that uses sound to lure coyotes to their deaths.

Sound. My first medium. That coincidence of air and flesh where I learned what joy and beauty are. I was incredulous when Kathryn told me about this machine. I researched it compulsively, more aghast with every click.

In 2017, Simon Romero of The New York Times reported that near Columbus, Ohio, a sheriff named Dennis Murphy dresses up in full camo and hunts coyotes with a silenced AR-15 assault rifle “in settings like strip mall parking lots, housing tract cul-de-sacs, and plazas in the shadow of skyscrapers.”

The Times had a photo of the sheriff brandishing aloft a double handful of flayed corpses. He gets a hundred bucks a hide from the fashion industry. “We’re waking up to the realization that coyotes are in our cities to stay,” he told the Times. “And since that’s the case, their fur is a renewable resource. I have no qualms about killing as many coyotes as I can.”

It’s not just Murphy. Several people told the Times that they “enjoy the thrill of urban hunting.”

An enjoyment of killing stems from something deep-seated. In 2006, American feminist philosopher Bonnie Mann published a powerful essay describing the US “national identity,” as it’s popularly understood and cultivated, as a “masculine national identity” to which even women must subscribe. “Indeed, the superpower identity,” the fantasy that underlies US imperialism, “can only be maintained and expressed through repetition, through a staging and restaging of its own omnipotence.” What’s really scary, Mann wrote, is when that “stylized Rambo-on-steroids identity” becomes part of individuals’ personal aesthetic, coloring and styling “every manifestation of how we are toward the world and one another.”

Small wonder that Coyote—the antithesis of Rambo and Elmer Fudd, the “vermin” who survives against the odds—is a symbol of resistance to marginalized humans like Navajos and lesbians, none of whom would be welcome in Sheriff Murphy’s cul-de-sacs either. His statement to the Times implies that if you have a next-door neighbor and you’re in your home “to stay”—“since that’s the case,” he says—your body is your neighbor’s “resource” to kill, flay, and sell for fun and profit. This twisted outlook’s foundation is a widespread delusion of grandeur according to which it seems acceptable for make-believe soldiers to fill imaginary enemies’ empty seats with real animals in spectacular displays of Americans’ power to stamp out difference. Such displays are necessary to self-nominated superheroes because, by definition, superheroes have to look like they’re winning even if they’re only winning in arenas of their own making. Even if their arena is the parking lot at Toys ’R’ Us.

Speaking of Toys ’R’ Us, it’s not just the Biblical fantasy that humans rule the Earth that helps the superhero fantasy pack its super-punch: faith in Technology, that hyped-up deity, feeds on every restaging of the “military-technological” might-as-well-be-Iron-Man aesthetic. And this—amidst the hunter’s truckload of plastic deer, terrifying metal contraptions, and dead bodies—is where the scream machine comes in.

                                                                                               

It looks like a cross between a boombox and a spaceship wearing camouflage. You can get it on Amazon. It comes with 75 preloaded sounds, including 3 varieties of “Coyote Distress.” Also “Coyote Pup Distress.” “Coyote Pups Frenzy.” “Adult Cottontail Distress.” “Baby Cottontail Distress.” “Gopher Distress.” “Deer Fawn Distress.” “Cardinal Death Cry.” “Bird Wounded Panic.” “Domestic Baby Pup Distress.” Murphy’s favorite sound is “Squeal of Dying Rabbit.”

The soi-disant “game” caller lures concerned or hungry coyotes into silenced-rifle range. Silenced, says the Times, because hunters “avoid alarming residents.” Human ones, that is. But really nothing’s more alarming than “Coyote Distress 22 seconds.” You can hear it on the caller manufacturer’s website.

“Having a voice is important,” says an incensed Kathryn. “For a hunter to use an animal’s language in an attempt to kill them takes anthropocentrism to new heights.” Not to mention recording agonized death throes and selling them to killers for profit.

                                                                                               

“What can I do?” Kathryn asks. “What can art do?” She buys a game caller. One day, via Skype, she activates the thing so I can hear it. “This is Distressed Starling,” she says.

Bear, her patient Yorkie, tears down the steps and pounces. Not on the decoy, which his faithful Kathryn has turned off, but on the thing’s remote control. Supposedly the remote lets the hunter conceal himself far away, so “Juvenile Coon Distress” won’t smell to a coyote like “Adult Human Bloodthirsty.” Bear hears right through it.

Slapping the thing and crying, he understands, because real pups don’t smell plastic, that these ghostly torture victims aren’t actually here. Still, he’d do anything to stop the screams. Kathryn shows him that she’s putting the remote away. She administers hugs, forgiven. Bear nestles in her lap, plunging into sleep as if to chase the horrors from his consciousness.

Only then does Kathryn show me what she’s done. She’s painted the caller red. Cut pictures from magazines and pasted them all over it. Pictures of disembodied human lips and eyes. She’s added bulbous taxidermy eyeballs, stick-on googly eyes with jiggling flat pupils. She’s done the same with the remote. Now the game caller looks like the game it really is. Ridiculous and deadly.

Eyes snipped from fashion magazines are recurring motifs in Kathryn’s work. It’s about “blindness,” she says. We’re so busy ogling specimens of our own species that we’re blind to how we treat other animals.

It’s also about things daring us to meet their gaze. Things we want to pretend don’t feel our gaze and can’t gaze back. A gaze is an interrogating look. A gaze is soundless speaking. From the plastic legs of Kathryn’s “bedazzled” game caller, from the handle and self-amplifying loudspeaker, disembodied eyes look right at me. Aloof. Sometimes half-lidded. And the lips. Pink and full but closed or only slightly open. With this air of studious indifference, the decoy seems to ask, So what do you want me to do? The eyes seem to wait for me as if to dare me, Take the remote . . . Instead of being a prosthetic extension of the hunter, this machine, just by sitting there, interrogates the potential hunter by looking them in the eye: You’re the one who’d have to press the button. Those languid paper eyes, that inert plastic body, demand without a word that the one with movable legs and itchy trigger finger take responsibility.

A gaze demands a response. A smile, a turned-up nose. Conspiratorial chuckle, lowering of the head. You can meet a gaze and hold it. Or look away, concede that you can’t bear it.

But Kathryn’s changed the caller on the inside too. She’s attached an mp3 player like an extra mouth. So besides mortal screams, the caller plays popular music. Pushing buttons on the remote could randomly get you a Cha-Cha, a Bee Gees number, or “Baby Jackrabbit Distress.”

In other words, Kathryn interrupts the decoy’s gruesome programming with other commodified sounds. Other voices-for-sale that lure humans into buying things from the music industry and whoever uses music to make sodas, phones, and politicians seem like good ideas. Next to consumerism’s excesses, it’s easy to feel how hunting decoys fit right in. Sure the manufacturer sells “Coyote Pups Frenzy” like it’s only software, just one of a thousand products, like a mass-produced camo-colored balaclava. But when “Rodent High Distress” shows up after “How Deep Is Your Love,” you can’t mistake the rodent’s cry for something meaningless or emotionless. Or lifeless. And it’s tough to look away from sound.

Kathryn’s radical absurdity: adding the hunter’s species to the hunting decoy’s absurd playlist. Using the decoy’s very own modus operandi to brainwash the decoy, so we will feel how absurd urban hunting is. Singing “Stayin’ Alive” all bright red and glamorous, the game caller’s useless for its intended purpose. As a hunting partner, it’s hopeless. A deserter. A subversive.

                                                                                               

Kathryn wanted The Urban Wild Coyote Project to be an outdoor artwork. She’d make bedazzled decoys forget how to scream, take them full of music to places where hunters and victims were known to meet and kill and die. She hoped Meat Loaf and Edith Piaf would warn coyotes away.

But the humans who love Kathryn begged her not to do it. “I was met with a resounding no,” she says, laughing. “Something like: Why would you want to inflame a testosterone-fueled group of people holding guns?” Human urban hunters do shoot humans. Generally, humans with guns kill more humans every month than all the coyotes who’ve ever lived have ever scented from afar.

Kathryn agreed to make a gallery installation instead.

                                                                                               

Here we are in the gallery, you and I. Even here, the Urban Wild isn’t exactly cozy. It’s as if, though withdrawing into a wallpapered corner, Kathryn has refused the gallery’s familiarity, the safe enclosure of “home.” The place seems neither gallery nor house but the uncanny setting for some kind of ritual.

The room is dark. Shadowy, ill-shaped stalagmites poke up from the floor. More shadowy things protrude from the low ceiling like restless spiders. Drawn to the only light, five small sparkles on the far wall, I head for it, my shoulders hunched. My path twists and turns between stalagmites and hanging things. I find I’m trying to dodge the sounds slithering out of invisible loudspeakers, making for what seems to be familiar.

Five panels of floor-to-ceiling wallpaper, lit from above by tiny cups of light, hang like sacred scrolls. Each one has a different, old-fashioned design. Fragments of pastoral scenes, butteries and bits of wheat field complete with barefoot peasants, are stamped in cement gray on a sidewalk-gray background. A pattern of flowers trapped in squares and circles makes me think of wire fencing. You press a button on a thing you found hanging from the ceiling. One of the stalagmites lets out a screech of agony. A too-loud ice cream truck tinkling “Turkey in the Straw” having set my nerves on edge, I almost jump out of my skin, and you give a yelp you try to pretend is a laugh. “Maybe next time I’ll get the Bee Gees,” you say. But you don’t, it’s more like “Coyote Pup Panic Attack.” One of the loudspeakers plays “Pop Goes The Weasel” on top of “Turkey in the Straw” in tangled glockenspiels. A creepy child’s voice says, “What’s a bad guy?” And the dark voice of a man obsessed: “Real pretty eyes.” Your remote control triggers “Coyote Distress.” And coyotes are bursting out of the wallpapers.

Kathryn’s drawn them in by hand. Or freed four-inch coyotes from photographs and stuck them on the wallpapers. Between ordered, abstract blossoms, coyotes peek at us. Not as if they’ve broken through the chintzy fencing but as if it doesn’t exist for them; no fence, no wall, no neat suburban flower bed has any power over them. It’s an infestation. Coyote ghosts are everywhere. Images of coyotes long gone, screams of coyotes dying again and again, coyotes in potentia, those whom the dying screams might have baited to their deaths.

The stalagmites are pillars with bedazzled game callers on them. Suspended from the ceiling are the callers’ remotes. There are two callers with the winged-boombox shape and three smaller units that fit in your hand. Your hand is full of deaths. Moments of mad terror and unbearable pain. Final moments of real beings who felt every second of the shock, split of their flesh, the pain, the bafflement of Why? Even an omnivore knows when her blood spurts out of her it is her own. Whether she’s coyote or raccoon, she understands wanting to live; and so she’s terrified and pain turns terror into panic. And panic erupts from her insides in a scream so horrible no one would have believed her capable of it, least of all she herself. And that moment. That’s the moment in your hand. The ghost of that moment how many times over.

Meanwhile, the messed-up glockenspiels jangling over the loudspeakers really are ice cream trucks. These trucks use playful tunes to lure human pups out of their dens. Smashed together in a squealing mush, the tunes are truly maddening. Among them we hear a baby bawling, snippets of TV commercials (“Meet the all-new SimpliSafe home security system!”), a man using a puppy to lure kids down the street in full view of their parents, and actors playing serial killers. All this at the same time as you stand there pushing buttons on the remote, causing screeches and shrieks to fly out of the game callers at random. You never know what’s going to happen when your trigger finger twitches, so whatever happens, you’re never ready for it. You wield the hunter’s weapon with the terror of the hunted.

And by the way, Kathryn chose the creepiest serial-killer voices she could find. We hear them lure their victims out of cars and doorways. “Real pretty eyes . . .” We hear the moment just before some sociopath starts having his way with his victim. “Are you scared?” Puny sob, click of gun. “You should be.” These voices are clearly from second-rate TV. They’re commodities. They’re canned (you can hear the tinny sound quality). Like “Turkey Distress” and Meat Loaf songs, they’re easy-to-find resources. Meaning consumers everywhere pay to hear things being murdered, things that know they’re being murdered by people we’d call sociopaths. And we like it. We enjoy prefab fantasies of the moment of death, of masterminding that moment, right here in our homes.

When Kathryn injects recordings of TV serial killers into the same not-quite-cozy room as canned sounds of real animals dying under torture, she asks us to wonder what their connection is. Might a human who lures others to violent deaths for kicks and a quick buck be encouraged in their sicko predilections by certain cultural predilections? In what moment of recent history has some serial killer, televised or literary, not been successful popular entertainment in the West?

None of that justifies urban hunting. I don’t believe “cultural training” necessarily prevents us from choosing how to behave. If you ran out and ate a flute player just because Hannibal does it in The Silence of the Lambs, that wouldn’t just be a problem with The Silence of the Lambs. Responsibility isn’t just cultural. It’s personal. But it isn’t just personal. Responsibility is also communal and therefore cultural. Kathryn’s Urban Wild sounds out a disturbing relationship between seemingly unrelated phenomena in hope of turning unquestioned assumptions about culture into disruptive questions about both cultural and individual choices.

Instead of “chill out, it’s only entertainment, everybody likes it,” Kathryn hopes that as the remote controls tumble from our hands, we’ll find ourselves wondering: What’s the difference between an urban hunter and a serial killer? Wouldn’t it be better to know coyotes might get in the yard than to know there are people who think killing for fun is reasonable? What do I do or think that might put me at risk for developing my own version of the hunter’s fantasy, the delusion that it’s okay for others to suffer if it’ll help my self-image?

                                                                                               

Kathryn often talks about the toxic connection between “ruthless consumerism” and the widespread human tendency to hate or value others based on their outward appearances. This is one reason why The Urban Wild Coyote Project emphasizes sound and keeps images in shadow. But the visual elements are still important. Coyotes gaze at us from wallpapers, their Old-Europe designs harkening back to an age when a wallpapered home was a sign of affluence on both sides of the Atlantic. Most wallpapers from that time had arsenic in them. It made the colors richer and long-lasting. It also slowly killed people by seeping into the air. This was public knowledge, but for decades no one wanted to believe it. It mattered more that they looked like they were somebody.

It was Kathryn who told me about this self-destructive phase in the history of interior decorating. She said, “It is my hope to point out the absurdity of our choices.” Everything in her Urban Wild participates in this. Buying poisonous home decor is as ridiculous as buying “Cat Domestic Mad.”

On a pedestal outside the installation is a box of coasters. The things you slide under people’s drinks so they don’t leave circles on the coffee table. Kathryn used cutouts from magazines, furniture catalogs, and wallpapers to make collages that she sent to an online digital printing service. The service, which can “personalize” any knick-knack with the image of your choice, churned out squares of lacquered wood with Kathryn’s collages on them. Each one’s different, but they all feature coyotes quietly interrupting or brazenly overtaking some lavish domestic interior.

In one of my favorites, a woman’s floor-to-ceiling portrait hangs in a huge home. Her gown is the same yellow as a coyote’s eyes. She’s a thing to be looked at. But the coyote in the foreground seems to look past her, maybe in the process of turning from her to look at us. There’s a chandelier above her frame, suspended from a white ceiling with a human eye staring out of it. Thirteen disembodied eyes seem to fall like old leaves out of the chandelier. They drift down into a pile at the coyote’s feet.

The idea is to use “household objects to highlight the presence of this often hidden animal within our everyday environment,” Kathryn says. “The idea of the seen and the unseen converge in an attempt to redirect the gaze.”

Coasters keep things clean. They’re mini-borders. The coaster is a hygienic little wall between the home and the possibility of dripping fluids occasioned by an outsider. To cover such a wall in images of the wild seeping in, including images of “vermin”: this is a symbolic subversion of the coaster’s purpose. But it didn’t have to be coasters. Digital printing services, which are ubiquitous, can print on anything you want. “Coffee mugs, dish towels, keychains . . . there are endless opportunities for unbridled consumerism,” says Kathryn. The problem is, whatever it is, the cool smartphone case or smartphone wallpaper typically overshadows the actual animal whose flattened, ghostly image gives the product (and its owner) its cool character. No matter how many coyote-ghosts stare out of trendy sweatshirts (I found one online that says, “I WORK AT COYOTE LOGISTICS WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?”), still we don’t acknowledge real coyotes with any dignity.

But Kathryn’s coasters aren’t things you’d slap a beer on. These are things you’d normally slap a beer on exhibited as artworks in a fine-art gallery. Artworks in galleries ask that you look at them thoughtfully. I take the coasters in my hands. Wonder what urban coyotes have to do with chandeliers. The living agonies and needless deaths of real coyotes are illusory adornments to the urban hunter, delusional displays of nonexistent niftiness. One coaster shows a disco ball. I look at the coyote smack in the middle of it. Hear, over my shoulder, ice cream trucks tinkling and dying animals screaming.

Kathryn’s Coyote Project doesn’t say how complex and important coyotes are, doesn’t declare urban hunting is despicable. She just exposes me. Physically exposes my body, my senses, to distressing juxtapositions. She puts in my hand the means to make those connections felt. Felt not just in my own ears but by everybody in and around this gallery, a gallery with trappings of a prospering or at least stable home.

But how stable is it? Has Kathryn not placed in my hands—drink coasters, remote control—trappings of a stable home that because they’re infested with coyotes and wild eyes could actually shake these paper walls and shatter their priorities? Wouldn’t that mean they were never stable in the first place?

Somewhere in a corner—it may be a shadowy corner of the screaming room, perhaps opposite the wallpapers, perhaps among them, peering out of the dark . . . or a corner in the coasters’ room full of light, perhaps beside the black cutout in the wall where the screams are coming from (it all depends on the gallery and how Kathryn feels that day)—a coyote rendered in oil on a six-foot-tall canvas looks up at me from the floor with fur I can almost smell and a cool gaze, curious and questioning.

                                                                                               

Besides the fact that wildlife reserves are shrinking, wild things are wild because the walls we build to contain them mean nothing to them. And because reserves are shrinking thanks to anthropo-consumerism, nonhumans do have claims on human territories. Homes are habitats. Permeable ecosystems. When you think about this, you’ll see you knew it all along: the myth of homeland security.

Never have the Navajo hunted the coyote. But sometimes, it is said, guilt over the other animals they kill for food distresses a Navajo hunter to the point of illness. Treatment is nine nights in a sweat lodge in a ceremony called Coyoteway.

For the first four “misfortune” nights, the hunter invites Ma’i, Coyote, to possess him. This is an ordeal. It amounts to feeling as a nonhuman animal feels; and this, although Coyote is not among his victims, stirs up the hunter’s anguish to an intolerable level. It takes several people and the next five nights to help the hunter symbolically lay his guilt aside by ceremonially disentangling his spirit from Coyote’s.

Sometimes I see Coyoteway making a casual connection with Coyote Project. As though a guarded nod slips between them as they pass each other in recognition and quiet dissonance. Coyote Project also summons us to invite Coyote in. Coyote the anguished prey. Coyote the spirit of disorder seeping through the walls. Coyote-spirit, if we let it, may guide our curiosity to take the bait-remote. To our benefit and misfortune, take up that burden of guilt. Listen to the mewls of fantasized murder victims bleed into the screeches of real victims like Coyote-prey. But we have to invite that spirit in. Without us as co-conspirators, the decoys won’t make a sound, the paper walls won’t show themselves.

Even if they don’t, there is no disentanglement. Coyote’s already here, we never weren’t under its wild influence. It clashes, discordant, with what we think we want and how we think we want to live. And so it will outlive us.

Yellow Cigarette

11 November 2018
Categories: Nonfiction

The pale jeans, the dry, curly hair and all the hands–sifting, grabbing, pressing. The kissing passionate and pink. The boobs likewise–under bathwater, under velvet. Women in bathrooms, so soft against tile and mirror.

It was a rolodex of a friend group. Nan Goldin was showing New York her family album from 1985. No one had wrinkles or age spots or fat. The long blonde and the woman with a pixie made me think of my Mom. Whose hair is slick black. She wore it every way–in the early 80s it was all off and her neck looked beautiful from behind, arching into small shoulders.

The cigarettes. Like nothing, I thought. No decoration so grand, so artsy, so gray, so weightless. Between women’s fingers. I thought of my mom’s hands bringing a cigarette down from her face. Her hands weren’t better then. Cuz she was doing metalsmithing late into the night in the fashion district with all the men, she always said. It wasn’t a woman’s job even though it was jewelry.

***

The guy who kept showing up, slide after slide. Sitting on the toilet, wearing a white cotton shirt. Never smiling.

Oh wait–smiling once. Teeth without calcium. Gray between them, rotting.

But his hair had the texture of my Dad’s. Back in what Aunt Susan calls his “androgynous stage when he looked like Abby.” Brown and golden. I can feel the airiness when I look at the photographs. No one has that hair anymore. Maybe in the 90s. Maybe my Dad was the last of them.

When the needles appear I think how he was too square for this–too disinterested. But with my Mom?

He said once that before they married, when they were still living in a closet with one window that faced a brick wall, her moods would change like they do now. At a bar she flirted with other guys. Small smile and purple eyeshadow and dark–dark beyond any measure– hair. Like a color meant only for her. Especially for her. Because she had a blonde baby.

There’s a photograph I have framed from 2000 of my Mom and me in downtown LA. In the courtyard outside the Dorothy Chandler where there used to be concrete fountains and black plastic lawn chairs. In the background is an expanse of concrete and dark green trees so green they make a verdant haze above our heads. My Mom with bangs and long hair blending into her black suit jacket, matching the glint in her black pearl earring. She’s holding me, both of our noses touching, hers is still straight, sweet, not coked yet. Her eyes are closed, black eyelashes under a charcoal brow and her lips open a little in a smile, reaching to kiss mine.

I am a light mirror of her. My lashes touching below light brown eyebrows below white-blonde bangs kicked up in the air. In a white knit sweater with a single, small pink flower on its side. My beachy hair hangs down and around me at my elbow is my Mom’s hand, her wedding ring hardly visible, and her black sleeve wrapping around my white torso. Our kiss happens after my Dad clicks the button.

***

This is the New York my Mom misses. The one she saw when I called her alone in my room freshman year.

The cabs were a different yellow.

Maybe I think of LA the way she thinks of New York. Probably not. Mine is sunny, defective, driving through Griffith Park alone at night, Lana Del Rey, blue. Hers is green eyeshadow, Joni Mitchell, cocaine, the Diamond Twins (perpetually painting, perpetually depressed Carol and Cathy).

Before the bridge of her nose collapsed and Dad stopped writing.

Bruised women. Dark purple and an eye swimming in blood.

The last man she had sex with before my Dad lives here, I thought. She thinks she still lives here.

Malibu she liked though. Dark wood floors and the scent of yoga by the lap-pool. Mostly because she’s a wealthy woman who draws anxious 6” by 10” pieces in ink. I wonder if she missed paint when she was there.

She learned how to play the bongo. She called me when she ordered it off Amazon. And then later that night, when she’d forgotten we’d already talked and spewed words at me, expecting responses. I told her I got Susan and Bill to watch Poldark.

I said, “That’s good. That’s so good, Ma.”

My heart slipping around inside me, trying not to cry on my aunt’s carpeted stairs outside the TV room.

I saw the bongo at Thanksgiving. Came up to the middle of my calf. Wrapped with a yellow, orange, and black pattern. Dad played it after we washed the dishes. He was really good, keeping up with a Bonobo track from “Black Sands.”  I have yet to see her play it.

When I was fifteen she had a yellow craze. Tiny canvasses filled with blocks of thick, yellow paints. Carol said they looked like color studies. My mom did not appreciate this.

The paintings went on for a year and a half like that–cream yellow, lemon zest, egg, filigree gold. I realized: yellow is the saddest color.

***

No one’s on a phone. Which makes sense, but it means the idea of irl is not just an idea but a surreal imagining.

A photo of a woman in a tulle skirt, hitched up over thighs and slender fingers covering her vagina–hair on each side of her hand.

After I talk to my mom on the phone I masturbate or jog. On Season 1 of The Affair, an old lady in a shop answers Noah Solloway’s inquiry about a yoga class by saying everyone doing yoga or wanting to do yoga should just do what they actually want–sex. I think about that a lot.

I close my eyes and touch myself with my thong still on and I’m a different person in an unrecognizable, usually carpeted, landscape.

My Mom called and told me about her therapy session that Monday. How she discussed the first time her dad saw her work and wasn’t impressed or didn’t compliment it and she felt like she fell right through the wood floor. This was at least thirty years ago. How she can let the past stay there–the present is something new but Janet really understood her today because her Dad didn’t like her paintings when he saw them. A Czechoslovakian immigrant who never finished high-school, owned a hardware store, and married a busty, blue-eyed, black-haired Dolores. He didn’t show support.

It becomes twenty-five minutes in 1985. Like Nan Goldin’s but with oil.

Then she finally asks me a question. How is he? How’s the relationship?

She says the same thing before goodbye every time–even when she’s stoned. She misses me, wishes I was there, thinks of me. I repeat it back, wanting to say more–to say I don’t know what New York is but I know what LA means. I don’t think about Zach now. I draw naked women a lot. But she’s put her cigarette out on the front patio and has opened the French doors and says, “Bye bye.”

***

My Dad started painting after he stopped writing. From 2004 to Obama’s election, he did geometric paintings in acrylic, using blue tape he applied directly to the canvas. Creating sharp edges. Now he does figural work. Usually trios–two droopy, skin and bones women and one man with his dick out and limp and his limbs short.

I’ve only seen three things he’s written (besides my usual rhymey birthday cards). The second piece he actually handed to me. In a magazine that looked like erotica from the 80s. A woman’s face on the cover with horribly formatted red font that said “Secrets from the Heart.” In it a short story he wrote about his big brother, Bill. A suspense-thriller in which Bill, who is good with numbers and a little antisocial (Susan calls him Rainman), figures out who is stealing from his Autobody Jobbers Warehouse by snooping around and ultimately getting shot.

Number three I still haven’t seen but it’s on Netflix and it’s a German movie with a blonde actress who has sensually drooping eyes. I came downstairs one night, senior year of high-school and said, “What’re you watching?”

A game we played with each other. I’d watch in the TV room upstairs and he’d come in around ten and say, “What’re you watching?” and I’d say and he’d sit on the couch and watch for a while.

“Just finished. A movie I wrote. Really wasn’t bad.” I asked lots of excited questions but all I got was what I already knew–he wrote it with Donny, his screen partner who I ran into at Silver Lake Coffee my first summer of college. He and Donny had lived in Manhattan together, mattresses on the floor. They all smoked a lot of pot at Bill’s with my Dad’s middle brother, Tom, and their various, rotating girlfriends.

Now when I call my Dad, he complains of melting oil bars. How the colors are more vibrant than acrylics or gouache but get underneath his fingernails. And he has to let the canvases sit and dry for a while before he puts them in the shower of his studio, along with all the others. Just stacked there, with the cloudy glass door propped open and all his naked women inside, on the white tiled floor.

***

Photographs of just the guys. With guns and cars.

Over winter break I lost the car in a twelve story parking garage. My mom technically lost it too but she doesn’t drive anymore so it was really my fault.

We missed the Senigram’s Chanukah party. I only answered Elianna’s calls to say I’d tell her the story on our movie date but right now I’m in hell with God.

We looked on 4, 5, and 6. I told everyone to go fuck themselves. Yelled out at the LA skyline that I didn’t want to be home, that I would have happily stayed in Manhattan with the guy who should be gay but isn’t. That I would never move back to LA, to a world dominated by blonde cars.

Mom’s emphysema and her total lack of authority made her very tired after fifty-five minutes. I pressed the button below the blue light on 5A and a black lady in a golf cart picked us up minutes later.

I was in shame and self-loathing. She took me out of that place–said she was off at 7:30 and no matter what she was gonna find us our car before then.

I called her God.

We went up to 6B and it wasn’t there. Back down to 5 then back up past 6 and on our way to 7 the ramp got steeper, the cart suddenly stopped, the battery died, we started rolling back into the car behind us. My mom got out of the doorless side and I ran out in back and pushed. My brown suede oxfords dug into the pavement and my purse slapped against the thin bumper. I held the cart as God pressed on the break and people beeped behind us. My breath got heavy. The Camry behind us honked again and a car swerved to go up the wrong side of the ramp, stopped to take a picture and drove off, tires screeching.

I turned around, whipped my hair out of my face and screamed, “Fuck you, you fucking asshole. Get out of your fucking car and help us.”

The fat woman in the passenger side pointed at the handicapped sign hanging above the dashboard.

I said I was sorry.

Another minute passed. All I saw was white plastic and concrete. My favorite word used to be “interdependence,” from when I took AP Human Geography in eleventh grade.

I told God to hold the cart and ran down past the Camry, knocked on a window, yelled at a handsome Asian man who sprinted up the ramp and pushed the cart up to 7 in four and a half seconds.

My mom and I sat in the dead golf cart, laughing. Her lipstick was still on. She held our Nordstrom’s bags during all of it.

When God came to pick us up in a new golf cart, we found the car immediately. We kissed her goodbye.

And then we drove to Farfalla and had our most successful dinner to date. Mom brought up The Jinx and Making a Murderer reminded me of all the details I had forgotten. I explained the blood splatter analysis of two episodes of The Staircase.

I also told her about the new guy. How he seemed a meeting point of Zach’s charisma and Kevin’s sweetness. I told her I think about Zach every day but it is different now. Even on a dark street in the Valley at night, near his house with its red front door, I don’t feel the rawness. Only a dull pang and it fades and I wander back to Manhattan.

When I parked the car in front of the house she said, “Oh my God.”

And I laughed.

***

I felt like I was looking into my parents’ private world. Brought up on screen years later, when it was alright to talk about in color.

Sammy and I walked to the subway and New York felt calmer. It was dark, but not the way LA gets dark with blue-black freeways.

That’s how they were in this place, I thought. Kinda. Closer to anything I could have imagined.

I didn’t call or text them that night because they weren’t really home. Maybe they were somewhere in the city. My mom with a cigarette in her mouth, gloves on her hands, welding. My dad with Donny or Johnny structuring scripts, without a watch, hands smoothing out his jeans.

I live my own secret life. On my quiet journeys on the D or the A to Broadway Lafayette. To crawl into his bed, sweat in his sheets with his hand on my ass, and wake up to look at myself in his mirror.

A couple weeks ago, Susan brought out the family albums–and they were there, looking too sober for a Nan Goldin portrait, leaning against one another on a pink carpeted floor. My mom’s hair grown out to a bob with split bangs curving to reach each other. My dad in a striped shirt and jacket, his hair dry and curly and weightless. Both smiling calmly.

Knock-Enter

11 November 2018
Categories: Nonfiction

I’m sitting alone in a dark conference room, phone pressed to my ear, eyes squeezed shut, trying to make sense of my friend’s words. She has information for me, but she can’t think of what to call it. She jokes about Alzheimer’s and laughs. Good ol’ R., the comedy writer, the absentminded screenwriting professor, always somewhat flustered, always joking. I hear papers rustling.

“Pitching!” she says. “That’s what it’s called.”

I write it down on a Post-it Note, hoping that seeing the word will make it all clear to me. I haven’t talked to R. in almost two years — she was busy writing pilots, I was busy having babies — but she doesn’t acknowledge the gap. And we don’t need to — it’s that kind of friendship — but still, it’s strange that she’s talking like we’re picking up yesterday’s conversation. I ask if she thinks I’m a different Jen (it happens; there’s a crap-ton of us) but she knows it’s me.

“So, what is it?” I ask, smiling, trying to feel her out on this.

“What is pitching? Oh!”

That’s not what I meant, but I wait as she takes a mental step back. She explains that to get a show on TV, you have to first pitch the idea to a Hollywood producer. She’s fifteen years older than I am — in her early fifties — and wrote many of the prime-time sitcoms I used to watch in high school, college, and beyond. She coined the term “knock-enter” that prompts a sitcom actor to knock as they open a door. She knows what she’s talking about.

“This would be easier in person,” she says. “Where are you?”

“I’m at work.” My smile fades. It’s two-thirty on a Monday. Where else would I be? “Where are you?” I ask.

A pause. “I’m just, um, here. I think.”

“Here” is her gorgeous home in a posh Chicago suburb, just a few minutes away from my office. I wonder if I could stop by and suss out her situation before picking my kids up from preschool. Or if there’s someone else I could ask to check on her. The notion of a stroke crosses my mind. Or a diabetic incident, though she’s not diabetic. But then there’s another voice in the background — it’s her husband, who works from home, making sure she’s all right. I feel partially relieved, but still mostly confused.

“I was doing just fine, until Al showed up,” she says to me.

But that’s not her husband’s name.

“Alzheimer’s,” she says.

“You’re not joking.”

“No.”

 

In 2009, when I enrolled in a low-residency MFA program based in Vermont, I received contact information for my future classmates and was amazed to discover that one of them lived just four miles from me. Well before our first term, R. and I became fast friends over coffee and a shared fiction obsession. Her openness and sense of humor calmed my anxieties about this crazy, costly adventure we were about to embark upon.

The night before our first residency, when the threat of a snowstorm bumped our flight up by a day, we scrambled to book a hotel room together in Albany and she insisted on paying for a rental car so we wouldn’t have to wait for the college’s shuttle service. Arriving at that beautiful-but-daunting campus with a friend by my side was a gift I never expected. We explored Vermont together by car, foot, and cross-country ski. We bought matching travel mugs at Walmart and matching beers at late-night dance parties. We bolstered confidence in each other when our manuscripts were reviewed in workshop and when it was our turn at the microphone for readings and lectures.

Between residencies and after graduation, we met regularly for coffee and critiques. She brought presents when my first baby was born — a pink Blackhawks jersey and a gorgeous lace-bodice dress ten sizes too big, just because it’s nice to have something in the closet to look forward to. In those first stressful weeks with a newborn, she was my only visitor who knew she could help me best by cleaning up my dirty dishes. When my baby was old enough to sit in a high chair, we met for lunch. And after my second baby was born, I bumped into R. at the gourmet grocery store between our houses. That was the last time I’d seen her.

I’d emailed her since then about going to a book signing and a local alumni event, but never heard back. I didn’t think too much of it — we were both juggling a lot at the time. I never imagined there was more to the story.

 

Hours after R.’s strange phone call, I call her back and ask if I can come over. I’m worried; I need to see her. She says sure, as long as I don’t mind that she’s wearing her pajamas. So I change into mine, help my husband put the kids to bed, and show up at R.’s beautiful home with a round box of cookies.

“I look ridiculous,” she says, laughing and running her hand through her Joshua-tree hair. She’s wearing a silk fleur-de-lis nightshirt and a pair of knee-length Mr. Potato Head pants. It’s a pattern of fractured facial expressions. Misplaced eyeballs, detached arms. It’s how I imagine she feels. It’s also how I feel as an over-caffeinated, sleep-deprived mom.

I tell her she looks great, and she does. This is two friends who know that the looking itself — standing face to face — is what’s great.

And this isn’t so different from the time I drove 800 miles, unannounced, to check on my mother, who came to the door in a fleece-lined magenta nightgown I remembered from my childhood. Except her house was a trailer in the woods with dysfunctional plumbing, she’d just finished a two-month stint in jail for drunk driving, and I wasn’t sure I’d find her alive.

But there she was.

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” my mother said, blinking into the light. My daughter has her sun-flare hair.

Now here I am at another door, a grand entrance, taking it all in. Proof that R. is here, as she said.

R.’s house is dim and quiet. Her Aussie Shepherd mixes, Scout and Buck, bowl me over with kisses, dropping tumbleweeds of white hair. They’re a welcome distraction, something to focus on. Unabashed love. I sit with R. at the kitchen table and she tells me about her diagnosis, a bucket-list trip to the Galapagos Islands, her older daughter’s acceptance at NYU, her younger daughter’s hockey games. The words come in torrents and then push up against the dam. I try to redirect the flow. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. She and I used to swap manuscripts and book recommendations and stories of all kinds, but now she forgets her thoughts mid-sentence. She tells me she can’t read books. I don’t ask if she can write.

“It is what it is,” she says. It’s a phrase I say all the time. Maybe I picked it up from her.

There’s a piece of paper on the table between us, and I realize it’s the pitching information she wanted to give me. It’s a handout she used in the screenwriting class she taught at Northwestern. It might be the last thing she wrote.

“Watch your audience in the room,” it says. “If you think you’re losing them, you are, so crack a joke about it if you can.”

It’s good advice. I crack jokes, and she laughs. I’m determined not to lose her.

“Set up the series before you pitch the pilot episode. … Inverted pyramid; pitch big picture to small. Also less is …”

The document stops here. “More,” I think, mentally filling in the missing word.

“I just can’t believe these pants!” She’s looking down again, her fingers splayed, staring at the googly eyes staring back. More laughter. It’s comfortable.

I tell her I love the pants. I tell her I love her. By the time I leave, we’re both crying. We both forget the cookies I brought. I leave them on her table, unopened.

 

I mention R.’s illness in an email to my mother. I can’t remember if I’ve ever told her about R. She doesn’t remember either. She writes, “So many diseases seem to be related to the food we eat. Very scary that there are so many chemicals in our food supply.” It’s her response to every bit of bad health news, now that she has shifted the focus of her addiction to nutrition. As if R. could have prevented this whole thing by eating my mother’s grain-free, sugar-free organic diet, where breakfast is a cup of tea with coconut oil and dinner is a plate of cauliflower. As if R. doesn’t already shop at Whole Foods and play tennis nearly every day, even now. As if my mother will live forever. I don’t reply to her email for two weeks.

 

I write a poem about R. Because that’s what I do. And then I write another poem. This one’s about my father. He doesn’t remember things either — but in his case, he’s forgotten the long-ago things, not the seconds-ago things. Or maybe he does remember — he just doesn’t acknowledge them. Like when he and my stepmother bought a cat, even though she said neither of them knew anything about cats, and I nodded and smiled and my father said nothing, even though we’d had a calico for years when I was young, when he was still there. But she’s right — he probably didn’t know anything about it.

 

There’s a new email chain among our classmates from grad school, all of us getting back in touch as we realize it’s been five and a half years since we graduated, and what do we have to show for it? Some of us more than others. I ask R. if she’d like me to tell them what she’s been dealing with. She says sure. I draft the email, suggesting snail mail as the best way to contact her. I paste in her address. Hit send. And then my demons creep in.

What if R. told us about her buddy Al when we were in school, and I dismissed it as a joke back then, too? What if everyone who sees my email says “duh?” What if I’m the one who can’t remember? This is the stuff that keeps me from posting much on social media — the fear of being so late to the party that it’s not worth showing up. It’s the feeling I get when everyone posts tributes to some famous person who just died, and I inwardly confess I thought he was already dead. And it’s the theme of every conversation my mother and grandmother ever had together. So-and-so lived in this house, not that house. No, they didn’t. Yes, they did. The back-and-forth of two people trying to prove to themselves and each other that they still have their wits — my grandmother in spite of her age, and my mother in spite of her alcoholism — and me in the middle as referee, looking for the faults in everything they both say, and ultimately turning the microscope on myself.

I can’t blame my father for blocking out the memories, even if it means repressing parts of my childhood. I do it, too.

 

One Saturday afternoon I ask R. if she wants to get out of the house. Yes, she says, almost desperate. But she assures me her husband and her teen-age kids and their friends are usually over, that the house isn’t always this empty. I don’t know if she’s allowed to leave, if she’s supposed to tell someone first. But I drive off with her anyway. It’s an act of rebellion for me. You want Starbucks? You shall have Starbucks! We sit in comfy chairs and drink our iced caffeine and I want to commiserate with her over the horrible state of our nation, and the world, but I wonder how much news she hears. I want to ask if she ever bumped into Trump in Beverly Hills, or if her people ever worked with his people, but I don’t really want to know the answer.

Instead we watch the young folks of the world come and go with their credit cards. There’s a guy with stick-thin women dressed in tight black clothes with holes at the shoulders and in back and down their thighs, like they’ve been in a tiger cage — that’s the style these days. R. needs help ordering. She doesn’t have her purse, but I assure her I wanted to pay anyway. It’s not that different from taking my mother to the all-you-can-eat buffet all those years ago, looking the other way as she stuffed her purse with pork chops. I remember R.’s words from an earlier phone call: You must be doing — great! I try to assure her we’re all in a tiger cage of one kind or another.

 

A couple days later she calls me at dinnertime.

“You know I’m not dying soon, right?” she says.

“I hope not!”

Her husband has just brought in the mail: letters and postcards from our old classmates across the country. I worry that it’s too much. I worry that it’s not enough.

“Well, you ask a bunch of writers to write, and that’s what you get,” I say.

She laughs and laughs. She always makes me feel like the funny one.

 

My phone rings early the next Saturday. I expect to see R.’s name on the screen, but it’s my elderly neighbor from two doors down — the one I’ve never met. I dropped off cookies and my phone number with her husband a few months ago, just in case either of them ever needed anything, and this is the first time they’ve called. The wife is alone and worried because her husband hasn’t come back from his walk yet. It’s a beautiful summer morning; I say he probably took the long way home. But she can’t hear well and talks over me: He left the house at 4:30. The sun rises early this time of year, but not that early.

“You mean you haven’t seen him since 4:30 yesterday afternoon?” I ask, frowning, but she doesn’t understand my question. R.’s voice rings in my head: This would be easier in person.

I grab two of the blueberry muffins I’ve just baked with my kids, call to my husband, and run across the neighbor’s lawn to the elderly couple’s house. I knock, but there’s no answer. I knock louder, and wonder if I should just go ahead and enter. As I reach for the doorknob, the door opens. It’s the husband, back from wherever he’s been — not a walk, but a coffee shop or newsstand. His wife must have fallen back asleep after he left and was disoriented when she woke up — it happens sometimes, he says — but now everything is okay. He wears a smile in his eyes, grateful for the muffins and the company.

I follow him through a vintage kitchen and into what used to be a dining room, where the wife is waiting in an armchair, every surface around her stacked with mail. Her skin is paper, an extension of the library displayed behind her on brace-and-board shelves. I sit in a third armchair across from theirs and we talk about the neighborhood, how it’s changed in the forty years they’ve lived here. They ask about my parents, the way older people do. I’m proud of my father’s affiliation with universities they know. My mother is harder to explain, though I’m proud of her, too, for what she’s overcome. I tell them about my kids instead. When I leave, I promise to have them over for dessert when their son visits in the fall. It’s a promise of memories yet to be made, and I hope they remember.

 

It’s finally August and my friends from grad school who use their degree to teach are scrambling to catch up on their personal lives before the fall semester starts. I arrange to Skype with one of them from R.’s house, the next best thing to being together in person. R. holds her cellphone to her ear, unnecessarily, while we talk through my laptop. I’m grateful, in a strange way, that our friend can see for herself R.’s confusion in all its forms, that she doesn’t have to rely on me for proof of what’s happening. The camera validates my assessment of the situation, my conviction that all is not right here. I hate that I need the validation. But if each of us wears our many past selves like layered clothing, then I’m always one shirt away from the child who spent decades scrutinizing her mother’s every move, searching for slurs, shakes, and stumbles, but dismissing even the most glaring symptoms of drunkenness, giving her every benefit of every doubt.

Our friend on Skype tells us she’s finished her novel and it’s getting some interest. I want to hear more about it, but not now. She asks R. about her daughters. R. thinks the younger one is seventeen, but she’s not sure. R. puts down the phone and tries to thank our friend for the call. There are tears. My hand on her knee. Faces getting splotchy. We say goodbye, and then I say goodbye to R., too — I promised my kids we’d go to the playground when they get up from their naps, but I need to go to the store on the way home and it’s getting late.

R.stops me as I’m packing up my laptop. She’s thought of something important and urgent. The words catch, release, flow again.

“Are you writing?” she asks.

I know she wants honesty. She hopes I’ll say yes. I feel bad, but — yes. Writing all the time. A novel and stories and essays and poems and I can’t stop. It’s manic these days, the urgency. Desperate. Maybe it’s the threat of nuclear war, the horrible chance of it all. Maybe it’s just the threat of my own mortality, my own cognition. As if I might forget where the story is heading. But I know and she knows and you know. None of this can last, and the order of the endings is a crapshoot.

 

I go on vacation with my family — a long road trip to the coast of North Carolina — and tell R.’s daughter that I might be out of reach for a few days. But R. calls several times while we’re driving and my ringer is turned off. She leaves two messages, three minutes each, of silence. I listen to every second, just in case. On our first morning at the beach, I see I’ve missed another call from her. I start to worry something’s up. I call her back from the aquarium parking lot, my kids in tow.

“Is everything okay?” But of course it’s not. It never will be.

“Sure! It’s — yes,” she says. Then a pause. “There’s going to be an Alzheimer’s walk.”

“Oh great! Do you know when it is?” Though it doesn’t matter. I’ll walk anytime — any distance, anywhere.

“No.”

I pause. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to. That’s kind of the point, right?” She is the only person I could say this to. She laughs.

“It’s like my mom said. You have to — to.”

“Laugh, or you’ll cry.”

“Yes.”

So we do.

 

When you walk through R.’s front door, the first thing you see is the collection of framed photos standing on a tall, narrow table. A color graduation portrait of R.’s stunning older daughter, and a black-and-white glossy beside it.

“She looks just like you,” I say, pointing to the glossy. Soft, olive eyes and dark ramen-noodle hair.

“That one is me,” she says. She explains that’s the photo she used for auditions, back before she started straightening her hair, when she wanted to be an actor and before she became a writer.

I look again and flash to the first time I came to her house — in the period before Al. I’m pretty sure we had this exact same conversation. Me pointing to the photo, the whole spiel. I wonder if she remembers. She remembers the Before, just not the five-seconds-before. I wonder how much her daughters will remember. Our culture puts so much emphasis on documenting our children’s lives, but what of our parents’ lives? I would give anything for a glimpse of my mother as a young woman, going off to work every day, before she met my father, before the anxiety settled in, before she gave up on everything.

 

It’s summertime in Vermont, seven years back, and the air is thick with stories. The legacies of those who came here before us to write. The tales of the greats. Our own fictions, tangled with truths. We’re in the rental car, just R. and me, winding along narrow roads. Our GPS doesn’t work, but we’ve got a full tank of gas and a free afternoon so we don’t care. It’s a feeling we’ll never have again, though we don’t yet know why. The mountains look like the broccoli served in the cafeteria at every meal, trees packed with literary vitamins, and we eat them all just by opening our mouths to the wind. Tiny white houses catch between our teeth. In our throats, empathy for the people we pass carrying tools and children and laundry from the line. It fills us like memories we didn’t know we had. We could stay with them forever, but at least we’d be together, so that would be okay. Hours go by, and deer and turkeys and the promise of moose, and we cross into New York and it’ll be dark soon. We turn off the highway and we’re still not sure where we’re going, except for a vague notion that we’re heading back, that we’re lost and found at the same time, knowing we’ll both take this feeling with us wherever we go from here.

 

Odometer

9 April 2018
Categories: Nonfiction

001969

My grandfather stamps the gas pedal, sending a rooster’s golden plume to settle over the green haze of Iowa corn.

In the backseat of this Ford Galaxie, his daughter winces as I kick her swollen belly.

We are speeding toward Chicago, my father intubated in the Great Lakes Naval Hospital’s ICU.

“Cripes, Myrtle! What was he doing traipsing around with a 16-year-old girl?”

Grandmother reaches to touch his hand, and he stills.

In the rearview mirror, my mother’s eyes close against vying contractions.

001975

Father veers onto the gravel shouldering this lonesome stretch of CR 18; the car shudders to a stop beneath ribbons of afternoon heat.

“Out—now.”

Scott thrusts the heavy door open with both shoes, rubber soles squeaking against the panel.

Outside, dragonflies patrol the ditch for mosquitoes; barbed wire loops from the weeds between bone-tired fence posts.

“What am I going to do with you?” my father wonders, sounding oddly bemused.

His son’s face is sculpted clay. He buries both hands deep into his pockets.

The Seville’s engine ticks away long minutes. I will him to allow Scott back in. I grasp for the words my father needs to hear—words I might force past my brother’s clenched jaw, if only to share this seat again, hold his protecting hand.

Instead, he shrinks into the distance, refusing to be broken.

001981

We drive into Wyoming well after dark. The heater rattles under the dash as ornaments of frost paint the glass.

The high plateaus of Johnson County surrender to the mountain range my mother has painted in her rapt illustrations of our new start. It stands to the west, its stark shadows of rock looming out of the night.

I tussle my little brother’s hair, but he doesn’t wake. He’s been sleeping since we saw the antelope outside of Spearfish. One bow of his thick-rimmed spectacles rides awkwardly above an ear.

I take them from his face and hold them loosely in the dark.

The lights of Buffalo wink into view.

“We’re almost home,” my mother whispers, adjusting the Nova’s temperamental defrost.

Minnesota lies 800 miles behind us—a distance farther than we’ve traveled since yesterday.

001987

Mitch and Troy spent the day at Lake DeSmet, constructing a growing pyramid of shot-gunned Coors cans.

Walt and I meet up with them in the high school parking lot as the sun slips behind the Bighorns; a cerulean sky bleeds evening aubergine.

Mitch rolls down the window of his F-150. “Get in or get gone—choice is yours.” He’s dangerous tonight: eyelids hooded, tongue thick with alcohol.

Troy stares out the other window, and it’s apparent they’ve been fighting. What lit this slow-burning fuse? A girl? Some drug debt owed? An AC/DC front man dispute?

Walt and I stay neutral. We climb into the bed and crouch directly across from one another on the inner fender wells of the Lariat.

The truck builds speed as it leaves town. We’re taking an arid ranch road out to Ucross, where it is rumored we can buy beer without a driver’s license.

“So much for seatbelts!” Walt calls, his voice thin as a stretched balloon.

“How fast do you think we’re going?” I shout into the rushing air.

He scoots forward and cups his face to the back window. “Fuck me! 80!”

We will be ejected from the truck, necks snapping as we cartwheel through the fragrant sage; laid before our mothers, our eyes swollen black.

But then we’re in Ucross, population 25, and I’m on my knees retching into the dust.

There is no liquor store, and Troy sticks his middle finger up when we refuse a ride back to town.

My stepfather introduced me to distance running a year ago, but the most I’ve ever managed to gut out is five agonizing miles.

Tonight, eighteen seem so possible.

001992

She hasn’t meant to get us stuck, of course. We’re lost, searching for our first shared apartment. And I asked her to make the u-turn—I asked her.

“I’ll push; you steer,” I say, stepping from her car annoyed, terse.

Five minutes later, my breath labors—lungs ragged, crackling. We’ve managed maybe ten feet, but her Ford Escort remains mired in a soupy trench, and my pants are stiff with dirty ice.

I rest one forearm on the hood; the other on my shaking knee. “You live in Minnesota, Sue. You’re supposed to be prepared for this type of shit. Why don’t you have cat litter in your trunk?”

“Because I don’t have a cat,” she says.

I reach beneath the mudguard, my fingers seizing gray slush. I throw it in her face.

She flinches; her lips part in disbelief.

I try to laugh it off, but it’s too late—she’s seen the violence in my eyes. I know I’ve never looked more like my father than I do in this moment.

001997

“She’s all yours,” the discharge nurse declares.

Sue rests in a wheelchair, holding Maddie to her chest. I’ve brought her Prism from the overnight lot, and scramble around to open the back door.

We secure our newborn into a car seat I’m suddenly sure will be recalled.

“Do you want to drive?” I ask, offering my wife the keys.

“I think I’ve done enough for one day,” she jokes. “You’ll be fine.”

We live ten blocks from the hospital. I brake at every intersection, though all stop signs
direct cross traffic to do so. A girl pedals past on a glittering bike with training wheels—we are traveling in the same direction.

Later, as Sue naps, I tiptoe to the nursery and peer into the crib. My daughter’s lips twitch in her sleep, searching for a mother’s milk.

I marvel at our creation, wondering how much of me she’s inherited—vowing to mend whatever I’ve broken.

002004

I shift the duffel bag onto the floor, wedging it up against the seat.

The Emerson border agent is interrogating a Suburban full of goose hunters heading into Manitoba, but his deft eyes note my movements. He finishes checking their permits and waves them through.

I ease my Dodge Dakota forward, my prepared answers already forgotten.

“Where you headed?” he asks, reaching for my driver’s license.

I tell him Winnipeg, and he asks me how long I’ll be staying, and whether my visit is personal or professional.

“I’m staying with a girlfriend for the weekend,” I offer, and immediately regret it.

“She have a name?”

Two, actually—though I only know her as Ms. Aurora, and I’m pretty sure he’s not interested in her BDSM handle.

Hesitation seals my fate.

“Pull into the bay, please. Leave all belongings in your vehicle and proceed to the waiting area.”

From this foyer, I am directed to a small room: its Spartan furnishings, a table with two chairs.

A bearded man enters, breathing heavily through his nose. There are tattoos on his forearms, but I cannot decipher them beneath the forest of kinky black hair.

In one hand he has a 20-ounce bottle of Diet Mountain Dew; in his other, he carries my duffle bag.

“We shall see what we shall see,” he intones, and it is clear he’s said this before.

He removes a pair of jeans, a heather t-shirt sporting the original Breakfast Club poster logo, my dopp kit.

Then he pauses, raising his eyebrows. His gaze creeps from the duffle, slides across the table, and climbs to my face.

My throat clicks like a stubborn pilot light.

He carefully lifts my wig from the bag. Next comes the sequin Hervé Léger bandage dress, and finally—inevitably—the pink leather collar. Its D-rings clink cheerily as he sets it down.

“I know they asked if your visit was business or pleasure. I’m going to go ahead and assume pleasure.”

There’s no use lying. The truth is spread on the table before us.

“I’m going to the Black and Blue Ball in Winnipeg. It’s, umm, sort of this fetish club I was—”

“Oh, sure! At the Village Inn there on Osborne Street.”

I forget to breathe. “Right. Osborne.”

“You know, a pretty girl like you should ask her Mistress to check out Northbound Leather in Toronto. They make a beautiful ladies neck corset.”

“I’ll make sure to mention that,” I squeak.

“But only if you behave yourself, right?” He chuckles, putting everything back in place.

Soon, I’m driving north on Lord Selkirk Highway. I should be excited about attending the ball, but in 48 hours I’ll be speaking to a U.S. Customs agent at the Pembina Port of Entry.

And it seems highly unlikely he’ll ever have booked a room at the Village Inn.

002008

“Just drive out there, grab your shit, and meet us back at the cabin,” my brother counsels. “Longer you’re in the house, the harder it’s going to be.”

“She didn’t even move it,” I say.

She is my soon-to-be ex-wife; it is my Ford Focus, squatting in the teachers’ parking lot behind Bemidji High School. It’s been parked between these same two yellow lines for the last month and a half.

I recall it was snowing the day they removed me from my classroom and drove me down to the in-patient psychiatric unit at Fairview Riverside in Minneapolis.

I was released at the end of April, and have been living with Scott and his wife in Maple Grove;
my therapist has cautioned me about certain “triggers” up north.

But I need my car. So my brother has given up his Saturday morning to bring me here. Mission accomplished, he circles out of the lot, and heads back to his Longville retreat.

I head west on Division, a familiar street awash with foreign irony. I arrive home, an alien.

Sue has taken the girls to her mother’s for the day. This was a concession arranged on my behalf—or, more likely, hers. I let myself in.

The divorce papers are in the kitchen. Yellow sticky notes indicate where I am to sign. The pen has rolled off the table, and rests beneath a chair.

I move downstairs. A stack of heavy boxes has been shoved into one corner of the living room.
My name, in her perfect script, is penned on each one.

She’s made sure there’s nothing left to lose.

002015

Parker Diana is my second daughter. Like mine, her mercurial eyes betray a pooled silence, and remain haunted even when she smiles.

She’s also my unabashed champion. At nine, on a family outing to Walmart, she noticed a couple gawking at me. Pointing at his wife, she informed the man, “I’d stare too if I had to look at her every day!”

So when she decrees I’m to give her driving lessons a summer before she turns 15, I acquiesce.

With the same faith that compels children to set up neighborhood lemonade stands, she sits behind the wheel of my CR-V, secures her seatbelt, and snaps her fingers. “Keys, please!”

We head east on a single lane dirt road near my house out in Wilton. Things are going well until we arrive at a hairpin turn in the road. A truck driven by a young man not much older than my daughter meets us coming the opposite direction. Parker panics and keeps going straight through the ditch and into the woods—my SUV stalling against a small tree.

I leap from the passenger’s seat and go to inspect the damage. The teen pulls his F-150 out of its fishtail, and tears away in a golden feather of dust; “Thunderstruck” fades into the distance.

Dragonflies tack above the susurrus of crickets.

I bend down and discover the tree is actually a graying fence post. Rusty barbed wire snakes back into the trees, marking a property boundary.

In the weeds beneath the car, I pick up an empty can of Diet Mountain Dew. There is also a fading No Trespassing sign, the property owner’s name scrawled across the bottom in Sharpie.

“Put it in reverse, and I’ll give us a push,” I say.

Five minutes later, we’re still stuck. She leans her head out of the window and says, “Shouldn’t you have some chains or a winch or something?”

We stare at each other through the windshield. Then I begin to laugh. And when she asks me why, I tell her because it’s just a car.

And, of course, because I know we could be so much farther from home.

Science for Dummies

9 April 2018
Categories: Nonfiction

In eighth-grade science class I was distracted by the boy who sat in front of me (our last names alphabetically adjacent). I would gaze at the back of Gary’s neck and wonder if he was going to ask me to walk around the baseball field after lunch, if he would hold my hand. I drew hearts with “Alice + Gary” inside them, played the letter-matching game—“love, hate, friendship, marriage”—with our combined names; it always came out “friendship.” I was a good student overall, but I hated science. I coasted through with little effort and no retention—who knows what I learned or might have learned if I’d been focused.

One day my diversion was a Photoplay magazine I brought to class. Movie idol James Dean had died recently in a car crash, violently, tragically, at twenty-two. I had swooned over his sexy sullenness in “Rebel Without a Cause,” saw in him a kindred spirit, shy, an outsider like me. I was absorbed in a James Dean photo spread, my science book propped up to hide the magazine. My unusually rapt concentration must have alerted the teacher, Mr. Gramstead. I considered him an oldish guy, stern and humorless—a typical scientist—with rust-colored hair that fell in his eyes. Now I bring his image to mind and see an attractive man in his mid-thirties. Mr. G called on me, and I jerked my head up. I had no idea what he’d asked, so I couldn’t fake an answer as I often was good—or lucky—at doing. Suddenly he was by my side. He snatched the magazine before I could shut the book on it. “Looks like you were studying something else,” he said. “I’ll hold onto this so you won’t be distracted.” I tried to look cool, hide my embarrassment. When I asked him after class if I could have my magazine back, he just laughed.

In high school, I was steered into courses that taught job skills—in my case, typing, shorthand, bookkeeping—for students who wouldn’t be going on to college. No additional science would be required for graduation. I was delighted, smug, as if I’d gotten away with something, like being undercharged for a pricey pair of shoes. Now I wonder who determined my fate at that early age. Who decided I wasn’t college prep material even though I was an honor student. It seemed the fate of working-class kids and their families who didn’t know or care enough to fight back. I see it now as a travesty.

It took twenty years after high school for me to realize what I’d missed and to do something about it. I attended university in my late thirties and elected sociology—a “soft science”—as my major, with an eye toward a career in social services. I still avoided the hard stuff, but a physical or life science class was required for graduation; I put it off until my senior year. I considered astronomy, dimly recalling a childhood interest in the planets and stars, until I found the ideal course: a survey of the physical sciences for non-science majors, an overview of chemistry and physics with a sprinkling of astronomy and geology. The class was taught by Dr. Springer, an eccentric Ichabod Crane-like character, tall and gangly, his eyes magnified by thick, round, dark-framed glasses. He wore a beige trench coat with sleeves too short—or arms too long—as he sauntered around campus lost in his own universe. His field was chemistry, and he claimed affiliation with the Berkeley scientists who discovered and named new chemical elements in the 1950s—Berkelium, Californium, Einsteinium, Fermium—but he was deprived of any share of credit. He neither forgot nor forgave the slight, whether real or presumed.

The class was more interesting than I’d anticipated, but the timing was bad. I was focused on graduation and couldn’t pursue a trifling curiosity about physics, though a slow-germinating seed was planted. Professor Springer said the top fourth of the class would get “A”s, the next quadrant “B”s, and so on. No one would fail. I had enrolled on a pass/fail basis in order to get by with minimal effort while protecting my high GPA, but I maintained a spot in the top group in spite of myself. Near the end of the term, a few students cornered me and asked if I would take a dive on the final exam so their grades would move up. I had nothing to lose. I stopped attending class, skipped the final, earned my passing grade and summa cum laude degree.

These two episodes sum up my formal science education. Another thirty years and I’m still scientifically illiterate but no longer complacent about it. I’m ashamed of the opportunities I forfeited, penalized by my folly as I confront my deficiencies. I see that without some comprehension of science, life’s mysteries remain unsolvable, like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. I used to say, glibly, about anything I didn’t know: “It must be physics.” Now I borrow Physics for Dummies from the library but give up after I flip through the pages a couple of times. It’s beyond me. What do I expect? It’s physics.

My interest in science crept up on me through the venerable pathways of literature.
I became captivated by “lab lit,” a newly-labeled genre defined as the portrayal and perceptions of science in literary fiction and nonfiction. It started for me with Andrea Barrett. I read “Servants of the Map” in a volume of Best American Short Stories and followed with the rest of Barrett’s compelling body of work. Much of her fiction has underpinnings in biology, botany, and other branches of science. Characters and their families reappear in different contexts, building a sense of familiarity and continuity. The stories come alive on the page, accessible even to the likes of me.

Dava Sobel was credited in part with the rising popularity of nonfiction science literature after Longitude was published to acclaim in 1996. Since then she’s brought her passion for the heavens to common readers in several meticulously researched works that read like novels. Her latest, The Glass Universe, unveils the behind-the-scenes contributions of women in subordinate technical positions at the Harvard College Observatory in the late nineteenth century. Margot Shetterley’s Hidden Figures and its film adaptation brought to light a similar revelation, the African-American women who worked at NASA as “human computers” and brought their considerable mathematical and scientific skills to the space program. Women’s role in science over the past two centuries was a well-kept secret until the recent surge in literary science.

Hope Jahren’s Lab Girl—in spite of its trivializing title—is a cogent blend of memoir and science. Jahren, a geophysicist and geobiologist, overcame the sexism of her field’s entrenched old boys’ network by noteworthy accomplishment and perseverance. Now, she says, “because I am a female scientist, nobody knows what the hell I am, and it has given me the delicious freedom to make it up as I go along.” She encourages the science-challenged: “Look at a tree, focus on a leaf. Ask a question about it.” Voilà, you’re a scientist, she’d have you believe. And if I hum a few bars of La Traviata, I’m a diva? But I get it, and the title too—she wants to draw girls and young women into science.

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot is an exploration of medical ethics and exploitation, the account of a woman whose cancer cells were harvested, without her consent, for medical research in 1950 and remain in use today. Skloot’s rigorous research and compelling exposition are undergirded by a BS in biology and an MFA in creative nonfiction. Andrea Barrett too draws on a biology degree. Another outstanding lay science writer, Deborah Blum, started off in chemistry before switching to journalism, both limbs of the family tree, her father an entomologist and her mother a writer. The Poisoner’s Handbook, a history of forensic medicine, was inspired by Blum’s reading of Agatha Christie mysteries in which poison often was the murder weapon of choice. The book was praised as reading “more like Raymond Chandler than Madame Curie.”

Science writing as an alternative to practicing science—the thought unearths past and passed possibilities that boggle my mind. There but for my early missteps and a different family go I. It appears the best way to inculcate an affinity for science is to be born to a scientist parent, a la Rebecca Skloot, Hope Jahren, and Deborah Blum, or at least into a family that values education and encourages curiosity. My parents were mired in just getting by; it didn’t occur to them to aim higher for me. By the time I reached Mr. Gramstead’s eighth-grade science class the odds were against me. Dava Sobel says her interest in science was stirred by a third-grade schoolbook in 1955. The irony doesn’t escape me—it’s the same year I was sidetracked by James Dean’s death and Gary’s brown eyes.

I’m a late-blooming writer.
In personal essays and quasi-academic papers on the life and work of Virginia Woolf, I’m confronted with the intricacies and vagaries of memory, fascinated by what we recall, how seemingly buried memories can surface—and why now?—while others remain deeply submerged. In a monograph on Woolf’s memoir writing, I examined her observations about the unreliability of memory, its subjection to the dynamic between past and present. She said, “What I write today I should not write in a year’s time.” She cross-examined herself about the validity of her own memories and the unconscious motives that led to unearthing them. And here I am, trying to understand memory and consciousness and the mechanisms of the mind—neuroscience—with no foundation. My youthful oversight has grown into a chasm; my handicap climbs as I incur the stealthy decline that accompanies aging. My memory betrays me as I investigate memory. I develop a growing sense of urgency that equates to old dogs and new tricks.

My Woolf studies lead me to Jonah Lehrer’s Proust Was a Neuroscientist. Lehrer drew from neuroscience and literature to make his case that artists—writers, painters, composers—uncovered truths about the human mind that only later were corroborated by science. “We are made of art and science,” he says, science seen through the arts and art interpreted by science. Marcel Proust showed that a memory is only as real as the last time you recalled it. Virginia Woolf wrote about consciousness—the mind, the self—as a process, not a place. Gertrude Stein observed that language structure is built into the brain; words have no inherent meaning. (Lehrer was later discredited, two of his books found to contain fabricated quotes and unverifiable data, but no irregularities were revealed in Proust Was a Neuroscientist.)

Linking Virginia Woolf with science might strike some as a stretch, but Woolf scholars have found fertile ground for exploration. Virginia Woolf and the Discourse of Science: The Aesthetics of Astronomy by Holly Henry demonstrates Woolf’s interest in scientific thought and the discoveries of her time. Woolf’s reading encompassed cosmology and physics, Darwinian evolution, Einsteinian relativity, the work of Edwin Hubble. Henry, whose research bridges science and the humanities, asserts that advances in the field of astronomy in the 1920s and thirties had a “powerful shaping effect on Woolf’s aesthetic imagination.” In Woolf’s novels, several stories and essays, and her diaries, she contemplates the intricacies of the skies, the nature of physical phenomena, the ephemerality of human life in the universe. Katharine Hilbery, the protagonist of Night and Day, studies mathematics and astronomy on the sly to avoid her family’s disapproval. “The Sun and the Fish” recaps the 1927 solar eclipse that Woolf, among trainloads of enthusiasts, traveled to the north of England to observe. Virginia and Leonard Woolf acquired a telescope in 1937, and Virginia recorded her sightings with fervor and awe.

Fifteen-year-old girls worldwide—except in the U.S., Britain and Canada—outperformed boys in science, according to a 2013 study.
This was attributed to their living and learning environment; to their confidence in their abilities; to nurture, not nature. I grew up believing that girls excelled in English and social studies, boys in math and science. We were pre-wired; therefore I needn’t take ownership of my failure. Now we live in an age of STEM-consciousness. Science, technology and mathematics assume heightened prominence due to the needs of today’s technologically sophisticated world and to shortcomings in our educational systems, especially for girls and women. Since my schooldays in the fifties, the climate has changed – but not enough. In 2011 the total U.S. workforce was only slightly more than half male, yet men were 61{0d6c0367c8c8ce3328d7385a3995d880bbc0bef238b7f2a91697c38c5b607893} of science and engineering graduates, more than three-quarters of the STEM workforce. The gender gap is alarming if, as reported, seven out of ten girls are interested in science but only two of ten pursue it. They’re still being told—overtly or by osmosis—that girls don’t do science. Ruth Hubbard, the first woman to get tenure in biology at Harvard, worked to dismantle biological theories about gender inequality. In 1981 she said of her observations at Harvard: “Women are still socialized to sit at the feet of great men.”

Heightened interest in women and science has led to the exhuming of histories and stories—from Marie Curie’s time and earlier to the present—of women who broke through the yellow tape across the doorways of science classrooms and laboratories that says “No girls allowed.” Barbara McClintock scandalized Cornell in the 1920s: she smoked, bobbed her hair, wore golf knickers for fieldwork. As a teacher and researcher in cytogenetics, she was excluded from meetings, given little support for research and no prospect of a permanent faculty appointment, told she would be fired if she got married. She left academia and joined a research facility where she discovered jumping genes—sequences of DNA that change locations within the genome. Her work was dismissed at the time but won the Nobel Prize in 1983, thirty years after her discovery. When biochemist and x-ray crystallographer Dorothy Hodgkin solved the structure of vitamin B12 in 1945, her department head was awarded the Nobel prize. Nineteen years later Hodgkin was granted the prize for her work on the molecular structure of penicillin. Other women scientists were bypassed entirely. Chien-Shiung Wu, an experimental physicist working on the Manhattan Project, saw her colleagues win the 1957 Nobel for her discovery. An astrophysicist, Dame Susan Jocelyn Bell Burnell, discovered the first radio pulsars, for which her advisor and an astronomer shared the 1974 prize.

The most notable snubbed scientist and non-Nobel winner was Rosalind Franklin, whose efforts and discoveries on the structure of DNA were critical to the work of James Watson and Francis Crick, who reaped the fame and fortune. Franklin attended Newnham College, Cambridge from 1938 to 1941, specializing in physical chemistry, a blend of chemistry and physics that explores the structural characteristics and behavior of atoms and molecules. After completing her studies—Cambridge did not then award degrees to women—Franklin worked on x-ray diffraction studies as a research associate at Kings College London. In 1953 she submitted documented findings that asserted a double helical DNA structure. Without her consent, her advisor, Maurice Wilkins, shared her data with Watson and Crick. They used it to complete their model and, with Wilkins, received the Nobel prize for the discovery in 1962. The Nobel isn’t awarded posthumously, and Franklin died in 1958, but it’s believed that had she lived, or had the prize been awarded sooner, she would have—certainly should have—shared the prize. In Watson’s memoir, The Double Helix, he demeaned Franklin’s intelligence, her manner, even the way she dressed (like “English blue-stocking adolescents”). He called her “Rosy,” a diminutive she hated, and dismissed her contribution. “We used her data to think about, not to steal,” he said. He later acknowledged Franklin’s x-ray photo of the helix as pivotal in his findings. Franklin has become the symbol of women’s inferior status in science. Her reputation today is as much for what her biographer calls “the myth of the wronged heroine” as it is for her scientific work.

The sexism and constraints Franklin and other Cambridge women encountered at Newnham bring to mind its fictional counterpart, “Fernham,” in Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. This polemic on women’s thwarted creativity and the double standard in education draws on history and on Woolf’s observations and experience. Her cousin Janet Vaughan was a hematologist and pathologist (later principal of Somerville College, Oxford). As a medical student Vaughan was interested in anemia, which was then treated with arsenic. Learning of experiments with raw liver extract, she got approval to try it on dogs. She borrowed equipment, including Woolf’s mincing machine, to make the extract. In her contribution to Virginia Woolf: Interviews and Recollections, Vaughan wrote that Virginia “followed all the details of my primitive chemical techniques, the fate of the dog on whom the extract was first tried … and then of the patient whom I cured.” Woolf used the episode in A Room of One’s Own, creating an imagined scenario about Chloe and Olivia, scientists who share a lab in which they mince liver to treat pernicious anemia.

I write in order to learn, I learn in order to write.
I don’t differentiate between what I read in order to feed my desire to learn more science—and what I need to ingest in order to write an essay about my desire to learn more science. I drop into Fifth Avenue Books, a used bookstore in my neighborhood that’s going out of business. The science section—divided into specialties: astronomy, biology, chemistry, et al, to zoology—remains well-stocked even with markdowns of eighty percent. I count twelve copies of The Double Helix. James Watson’s later memoir, Genes, Girls, and Gamow: After the Double Helix, is also on the shelf. (For the record, Gamow was a theoretical physicist, not to be confused with gamete, a cell.) I’m satiated on the topic from Rosalind Franklin’s perspective and pass over Watson’s rakish and self-serving accounts of his exploits. Shelves of “brain science” yield prizes: The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sacks, long on my “read someday” list, and Diane Ackerman’s book on the brain, An Alchemy of Mind. Ackerman’s epigraph, an e.e. cummings poem, quickens my pulse with recognition: “my mind / is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and / taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and / chipping with sharp fatal tools…”

Priscilla Long isn’t a scientist or a daughter of scientists. She’s a writer who, in the course of exploring her life and world, became fascinated with and educated herself about genetics and neuroscience. She wrote an award-winning essay, “Genome Tome,” then another, “My Brain on My Mind.” She toured the landscape of lay science for The American Scholar in two years of weekly blog posts, starting with “Science: Why Bother?” We non-scientists, she suggests, are drawn to science because we’re curious, because we recognize that science is our “lens into reality,” because we believe it may save the world. My inquisitiveness stems from the conviction that I’ve missed something vital. With a little effort, it’s there for the taking (except perhaps physics), but I believed access was closed to me—I didn’t have the password to enter the realm. I’ve been content to leave science to others, but at what expense? What will I have lost that still might broaden my world? I dabble in the periphery, a little here, a little there, in a serious but dilettantish flutter, in the hope that bits will stick.

My quest calls attention to the role of science in daily life, my life, things I do, or did, without considering their underpinnings. Like cooking. I’m a decent cook—my husband says a great cook—but because of laziness and/or fear of failure, I avoid challenges. I choose simple and forgiving recipes that allow me to measure ingredients loosely—dashes, smidgens, pinches, lumps, globs and dollops in place of specified quantities. I don’t bake because of the necessity for precise measurements. It’s basic chemistry, of which I’m ignorant: how things interact when combined, what substitutions you can and can’t make, why you need a specific ratio of baking soda (or powder?) to flour for cookies to not come out of the oven as flat disks.

I’ve long been interested in nutrition and fitness. My idol is Jane Brody, who merged biochemistry with science writing to achieve renown for the past fifty years as a health and nutrition expert at the New York Times. Her books have a place of honor on my shelves; their brittle, yellowed, marked-up pages are dog-eared and peppered with scraps of paper from before the advent of post-its. I once considered professions in health care, but the science kept me from pursuing a career as a dietician. Instead, I did my graduate work in public health and chose administration—how to be a bureaucrat—over the more compelling but technical and daunting epidemiology.

As a runner and power walker, my goal is to stay healthy and on my feet as time’s wear and tear take their toll. The detours and barriers on my path can be summed up in the old spiritual “Dem Bones”: “Toe bone connected to the foot bone, foot bone connected to the ankle bone,” and on up the skeleton until “neck bone connected to the head bone.” They’re all linked, a continuous chain from top to bottom. A recent foot injury sends me to physical therapy, where I work with a biomechanics specialist whose formal education included anatomy and physiology, biology, chemistry, histology, kinesiology, and neuroscience, as well as social and behavioral sciences, math and statistics. To my ceaseless questions she explains, with sketches, the roots of my recurring problems, their relationship to chronic back and shoulder issues, and how I can increase flexion and take the burden off my high arches. The multidisciplinary science of running explores every nuance as it concerns aging, as the sport continues to grow and its Baby-Boom-and-beyond participants refuse to retire their sports watches and water bottles. An essay about the biomechanics of sports bras in the 2016 Best American Science and Nature Writing appeals to a mix of my selves—the runner, the writer, and the science novice.

When I began this essay and thought about how I would describe my dilemma, I considered something to the effect that “I don’t know a neuron from a synapse.” But what a deplorable statement, comparable to a confession of degeneracy or sloth. I wouldn’t admit to either if I weren’t at least on the road to rehabilitation. Ignorance, like addiction, is treatable, and I’m in recovery, a work in progress. I’ve kept my original title, serious at one time, now playful mockery. The “dummies” books aren’t for the apathetic and oblivious; they’re written for people who have a genuine interest in their topics but need a user-friendly primer. Physics for Dummies is still out of my reach, but I’m entrenched in Neuroscience for Dummies. I study the brain, its parts and functions. I begin to understand its wiring, the neurons and synapses, dendrites and axons. I ask questions and pursue answers. Hope Jahren would say I’m a scientist.

A Leaky Bag of Water

10 November 2017
Categories: Nonfiction

In the warmer months, my humid and lush suburban backyard becomes a battlefield for my war against slugs. I would have expected this seasonal plague of slugs in the country or a rainforest. Yet, slugs roam this area that is just about ten miles west of the skyscrapers of downtown Baltimore. And I want the small patch of land I own to be free of them.

It all started on October 3, 2014. The temperature was in the upper 50s, cool enough to require long pants and a flannel. Sitting in our backyard, my partner Dan and I were enjoying a small fire in our terra cotta chimenea and drinking cold beers. Thirsty for another sip, I reached for my can, which was by my feet. I gasped. Hanging out by my can of Miller Lite was a slug the length of my palm. I abandoned my seat as if it were on fire and fled indoors.

Our backyard light had illuminated this leopard slug, or Limax maximus as it is known in Latin. These slugs are light brown with dark brown spots, evoking an army of slithering leopards. And their bodies grow to be at least four inches long by early fall. Dan says he’s seen one in our backyard that was about seven inches; he has a picture, which I have yet to dare peek at. Ever since our first summer in Baltimore, when he sighted these low-lying mammoths, he has been intent on ridding them from our yard.

Slugs meander freely after sundown, a time when most people are tucked indoors, but not Dan. A smoker, he especially enjoys the tranquility the night offers as he inhales and ruminates on his writing, teaching, and research — that is, until a giant slug tries to drink his beer or climbs onto his pants or otherwise distracts him, such as by scaling the outdoor basement steps on which he sits or crawling into and out of the drainage grates.

Before I’d seen the Miller Lite slug, I thought he’d been exaggerating about their size or number. Now, their very presence shocks and disgusts me, and I feel guilt at the lack of support I had given Dan when he’d lined our outdoor basement steps and drains with pennies. He’d read that copper deterred slugs — gave them an electric shock — and we had lots of pennies in our coin jar. After each rainfall in the spring, summer, and early fall, he would sprinkle salt — sea salt, salt with iodine, rock salt, or salt pellets — around the areas where we liked to sit and enjoy the warm evenings. I’d lectured him for contributing to our watershed’s ruin, but I would reprimand him no more. I accepted the slug as our common enemy and prepared for their eviction from my land. First, I studied them; I needed to learn about my enemy. Then, I evaluated my options to force their exodus. Finally, I took action.

***
I. Know the Enemy

The Limax maximus, an invertebrate in the phylum Mollusca, and belonging to the subclass Pulmonata that also includes snails, has evolved over millions of years. Unlike its water-reliant cousins with gills, this land slug breathes with lungs. Though its ancestors once had hard shells covering their bodies, the modern offspring of the Limax maximus has shed this armor. Perhaps it did so to move at a quicker pace, and it does move faster than a snail, for example.

“Slugs are like a leaky bag of water that survives [on] dry land,” says Dr. Timothy Pearce, assistant curator and head of the mollusks section at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It’s no surprise, then, that the land slug prefers wet or humid landscapes with lots of hiding places (like under mulch, inside drain pipes, and under piles of fallen and decomposing leaves). And the Mid-Atlantic, as well as other stretches of land east and west of the Mississippi River, provides this oasis for the leopard slug. Its embrace of America is perhaps not surprising given that it has been here for over a century. As a result of global transport of organic commodities, the leopard slug first sailed to the North and South Americas about a hundred and fifty years ago. The leopard slug is aggressive and will bite slugs native to the Americas, such as the banana slug, to get what it wants — food or territory. The leopard slug will even eat a dead slug. To stay hydrated during the day, they lurk under stones, decaying tree trunks, or under the wide leaves of plants such as the hostas that line my front patio’s edge.

Because it is not indigenous to the Americas, Pearce calls the leopard slug an invasive species, “like the python to the Everglades.”

Slugs prefer to hang out with people.

Megan Paustian, a researcher with the National Museum of Natural History in Washington, DC, says leopard slugs have an affinity for urban areas, suburbs, and other disturbed places near people. It turns out that this is a common trait of invasive species. “People incidentally provide shelter (drainpipes, woodpiles, gardens, walls with cracks in them, etc.) and food (e.g., in trash cans, food left for pets), which is why they do so well around us,” she says. These slugs make do with what they can find and stick close to their familiar surroundings. Their apparent low-maintenance attitude seems to have helped them thrive as a species.

Leopard slugs eat a lot. Pearce describes them as being “a stomach on one large foot.” Paustian says leopard slugs “are omnivores and scavengers; they’ll eat dead plants and garden plants, fungus, and carrion.” They’re aggressive when it comes to acquiring their food and shelter, enough so to bite their competition to hold ground as King or Queen. But what they eat, they release to the environment. “Slugs and snails, in general, are important as decomposers, helping to return nutrients to the soil,” Pearce says. Their waste is rich in nitrogen, providing a beneficial nutrient to the land that nourishes and nurtures them. And when the slug’s life cycle ends due to the tongues of frogs or the beaks of ravens — some of their natural predators — it too becomes part of the dead, organic earth.

Though hermaphrodites, leopard slugs prefer to copulate with a mate, and they reproduce fiercely. Indeed, I have seen two slugs consummate this need. It was that same October, but a few days later on a Saturday afternoon. The sun’s rays shone the brightest on the copulating pair. The bluish slime their lust produced created a halo around the pair as it swayed, suspended like a double helix from a bent flower stalk that towered about two feet above its parent hosta plant. So entwined, the pair looked like miniature snakes preparing ritualistically to wreak havoc on their fellow beings.

Farmers and gardeners perceive the leopard slug as an omen. This slug destroys crops, eating seedlings whole. In my garden, they have been an obstacle to growing kale and mustard greens from seeds. The few plants that do sprout barely make it to the size of a three-by-five index card before a leopard slug bites into the leaves, making them look like slices of Swiss cheese. Pearce shares my frustration. He’s a gardener, too, and, though he loves mollusks, he is irritated that the leopard slug competes with him for his garden’s greens. But there’s no “silver bullet” for getting rid of them, he says. Whenever he finds slugs, he kills them by “cutting them in half.”

II. Explore Strategies to Deter Slugs from My Yard

  1. Salt keeps slugs away, but pouring it on soil harms other plants and the freshwater. Pouring salt directly on slugs’ bodies causes them pain. I don’t want to cause any sentient being that agony.
  2. The leopard slug that hung out by my beer that October day was probably drawn to the yeast in it, or the hops and barley. Gardeners sometimes use this yellow brew to attract and drown slugs. But beer, even in a can, costs money, and I prefer not to share my beer with a slug or use this otherwise therapeutic beverage as a murder weapon.
  3. Pesticides, while effective for some pests, may not work on the leopard slug: its slime can actually protect its skin and innards from chemicals. And these chemicals, as Rachel Carson cautions in Silent Spring, don’t just hurt the intended target; they hurt other living creatures such as the frog that enjoys the occasional slug for dinner.
  4. Copper, as Pearce substantiates, is perhaps the best deterrent because it gives slugs an electric charge upon contact. I’ve considered laying large strips of copper over my entire yard. The oxidation could be interesting to observe. At about $3 per pound, buying enough copper might not bankrupt me as my yard is small, but my property value might decrease with a copper lawn. Moreover, I would worry about the errant slug (or its family!) trapped forever under the copper sheeting.
  5. I could beseech the slug’s natural predators — ravens, frogs, beetles, snakes, cats, and owls — to populate my yard en masse and eat their season’s fill of these mollusks. Yet, I know how futile this mental exercise would be.

III. Act

Though slugs prefer to hang out with us in our ever-changing urban scenery, they knew a time when we didn’t drive cars — maybe we are their collective curiosities and maybe they want to know how long we can last as we alter one landscape after another. And given their aggressive nature to be Kings or Queens of the terrain they claim, I know they are sure to survive other Earthly calamities, such as the eventual extinction of the modern human.

Even so, Dan and I were determined to claim our parcel on Earth. So, in the summer of 2015, we decided to try to outwit the leopard slug. We dug out the hostas, whose large leaves had shaded the slugs from the desiccating sun. In their place, we planted ornamental grasses (which slugs abhor) and laid down jagged rocks (which slugs do not like to slide over). Instead of planting vegetables in my garden, I grew flowers that slugs dislike: coral bells, lavender, peonies, roses, and hydrangeas. I opted to grow vegetables in containers, and the yield was slightly more satisfying.

But even after that effort, the slugs lingered. In the harsh sunlight, the brick walls and tree trunks where they had slithered upon glistened like shellac. And there were holes in the leaves of my container-grown kale. One even entered our basement — probably having taken a ride on Dan’s pants legs — leaving behind a shimmery trail of slime on a black rug. We mapped its movements and saw its shriveled body at the trail’s end, near the entrance to our sump pump; it was so close to being free of our dry air.

So we bought salt and lots of it. Nowadays, before each sundown, Dan’s routine includes sprinkling salt around the perimeter of where he will be sitting for smokes during the evening hours — usually our basement steps.

We also bought plastic tongs. In spite of the salt, one or two (or more) slugs rebel and venture into the slug-free zone. That’s when he uses tongs to grab and chuck them into a neighbor’s yard.

I still freak out when I see a slug, and I seldom go outside after sundown for fear of sighting the Limax maximus. I’ve learned that I’m a coward.

***

While an invasive creature to the American landscape, the leopard slug is, I admit grudgingly, just trying to be. Pearce says he doesn’t know why the leopard slug likes to be around humans. I, however, will venture a metaphysical reason born out of my Hindu upbringing: karma — slugs are punishing humans for not wanting them nearby when humans are responsible for the slugs’ geophysical displacement. And I was taught to respect karma.

So I’ll only venture out into my yard at night once the frost hits. That’s when the slugs won’t be out, and it will become safe for me to enjoy the evening air, however cold.

##

Sources:

Megan Paustian, PhD; Contractor at the National Museum of Natural History; Mollusk collection. April 3, 2015, and November 26, 2016. Email interviews.

Timothy Pearce, PhD; Assistant Curator and Head of the Section of Mollusks at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History. March 28, 2015. Email Interview.

Timothy Pearce, PhD. March 30, 2015. (See above for his credentials). Telephone interview.

Bland C. 2013. Why are snails and slugs are repelled by copper? Huffington Post website. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/quora/why-are-snails-and-slugs_b_3155291.html. [Published April 25, 2013.] Accessed November 30, 2016.

Casey C. 2009. Feeling sluggish. Slate. http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/green_room/2009/04/feeling_sluggish.html. Accessed October 13, 2017.

Gaitán-Espitia, Juan Diego, et al. Repeatability of energy metabolism and resistance to dehydration in the invasive slug Limax maximus. Invertebrate Biology 131.1 (2012): 11-18.

Gordon, David George. The Secret World of Slugs and Snails: Life in the Very Slow Lane. Sasquatch Books, 2010.

Naeve L. 2006. Slug it out with slugs in your garden. Iowa State University Extension and Outreach website. http://www.extension.iastate.edu/news/2006/jun/070201.htm. [Published June 5, 2006.] Accessed November 30, 2016.

Pacific northwest nursery IPM: snails/slugs. Great gray garden slug, tiger slug, spotted leopard slug. Oregon State University website. http://oregonstate.edu/dept/nurspest/Limaxmaximus.htm. Accessed November 30, 2016.

Pacific northwest nursery IPM: snails/slugs. Slugs. Oregon State University website. http://oregonstate.edu/dept/nurspest/slugs.htm. Accessed November 30, 2016.

Pests and disease: slugs and snails. 2014. BBC website. http://www.bbc.co.uk/gardening/advice/pests_and_diseases/identifier.shtml?snails. Accessed November 30, 2016.

Phylum Mollusca. Florida State University website. http://bio.fsu.edu/~bsc2011l/sp_05_doc/Mollusca_2-22-05.pdf. Accessed November 30, 2016.

Scrap Register. Price of copper. Scrap register website. http://www.scrapregister.com/scrap-prices/united-states/260. Accessed November 30, 2016.

Slug and snail FAQs. All about slugs website. http://www.allaboutslugs.com/faq/. Accessed November 30, 2016.

Slugs: appearance and life history. Purdue University website.
http://extension.entm.purdue.edu/fieldcropsipm/insects/soybean-slugs.php. Accessed November 30, 2016.

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