Foliate Oak May 2019

Fiction

Simply Notice
By Sally Bunch

Sit comfortably and close your eyes. Relax your body but stay upright and aware.
 
Okay, I’m as comfortable as I can get. Lower my shoulders, don’t arch my back. Maybe too aware; after four cups of coffee I have to pee.
 
Notice your breath. Breathing in, breathing out.
 
Hyperventilating, since waking up at four and thinking that reviewing my finances would provoke sleepiness. Yeah, right! Thanks Mr. Mindfulness, sir, for reminding me to breathe, I imagine under normal circumstances I’d take this basic bodily function that’s keeping me alive for granted.
 
Focus on where you are feeling the breath. Is it in your nose? Your chest? Your belly?
 
Breathing in the mouth. In, out, in, is Cooper in my two o’clock? Or is he going to cancel again? Oh right, Callie called the meeting. He favors her; she kisses up to him. That Propelco account should have been mine…
 
Now focus on the rest of your body. Do you feel any warmth, or coolness?
 
Not enough coolness. I could meditate in the nude, but I’d have to close the blinds. I’m not the only early bird with a two-hour commute.
 
Make a mental note of your senses: hearing, smelling.
 
Hearing: thunder. Not looking forward to the drive in. Smelling, no, gagging: must be a dead mouse. Certainly not food. I miss Amanda, how she kept the apartment clean, the refrigerator stocked.
 
Be aware of the sensations that come up without judging them.
 
What kind of sensation? The pain of returning home to catch your girlfriend in bed with the Starbucks barista? The one who made your double espresso soy chai latte every morning? The pain of switching to Dunkin’ coffee?
 
If your mind wanders, just return to the breathing.
 
It’s your fault, Mr. Mindfulness! You got me thinking of Amanda again. One month—you’d think I’d be over her. I should meditate unguided. Well, not like yesterday’s attempt, when I fell asleep and missed that 9:00 meeting with Cooper and the VP of Finance. Ironic given they prescribed this meditation as a “corrective action.” In any case, carry on sir. Keep me on track. Bladder don’t fail me either.
 
Now allow your awareness to expand. Notice the thoughts as they move through your mind.
 
I forgot to set up another meeting with Cooper prior to meeting with the VP of Marketing on Thursday. I should schedule it right after this sitting, before Cooper’s day fills up with more private appointments. Well-dressed, one at a time, whisked away to his office. Are these thoughts moving through my mind? No, they’re congested in the cubicle of my consciousness. Who are these people? Why are they all so young?
 
If you find yourself pulled into thinking, simply return to the breath, and begin again.
 
Damn, I’m screwing up this meditation. If this were my performance review, I’d get “needs improvement.” Or, as Cooper calls it, “emerging.” What does emerging mean anyway? All I know is the pain emerging from my chest. It’s probably heartburn again. Or the pain I want Cooper to feel when I submerge the knife.
 
Breathe through the mouth, it still stinks in here. Uh oh, my phone. Can I see without opening my eyes? Just a peek. Meeting invites from Cooper? With Don from HR? What project is he on?
 
If the thoughts have fear in them, be aware of the feeling and let the thoughts come and go.
 
Come on, battery, 12%! I need you. Okay, let it go. Meditation is supposed to be fifteen screenless minutes. You would think for once I’d make it past minute ten, without the thought of LOSING MY FUCKING JOB.
 
Maybe I can discuss this with Cooper before the meeting, work something out. Pause the meditation. Can he can do ten-thirty, send. Conflict? Ten o’clock, send. Again? I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and I’m going to do it with mindfulness, dammit. Okay, 9:30 works. Back to you, my sageness.
 
Notice what happens to the thought as you’re mindful of it. Does it change? Does it disappear?
 
Oh, it certainly didn’t disappear! But I changed that motherfucker. No longer a fear about my dimming prospects. That lady on the Calm app could never deliver me to this moment. No sir. I can focus on the meeting I have with my breath. Good morning, breath. Make yourself comfortable and stay a….aaaah! Cooper canceled our private meeting!
 
Callie can help me instead? No way! Okay breath, slow down. I’m closing my eyes. My ears will be my front line. Pee-ew, not my nose. Okay, breathe, breathe…
 
Over time you’ll notice that every aspect of your experience becomes part of the meditation practice. You may ask yourself…
 
Ask myself what? My whole experience keeps invading my practice whether I like it or not. Go away, shitty boss! Go away, barista who stole my future wife!
 
Shit! My battery! My only charger’s at work. Amanda took the others. All the clocks, too. But the microwave clock is set. Right?
 
(thunder clap)
 
Oh great. Power’s out, and it’s still dark. Find my tie, find the blazer that goes with my pants. Find the bedroom door. Ow! Shit! I really should have peed before meditation.
Is this the toilet? Oh yes. Ahhh.
 
What do I do now? Go in on time as a bruised, slightly wet, sartorial nightmare? Or wait until sunrise to dress at the risk of being late and adding to the justification for my dismissal? Or just sit it out until the power comes back?
 
Waiting. Breathing in, out, in, out.
 
Feeling: cool toilet seat. Hearing: soft drumming of rain. My chest feels…better. Smelling: bread baking next door. I should begin again, Mr. Mindfulness, don’t you agree?
 
 Sally Bunch lives in Boston with her daughter, works as a grant writer, and plays guitar in the rock band Thrust Club. Her short fiction has appeared in Litro Online, Magnolia Review, The Binnacle, Bird’s Thumb, and elsewhere.  

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Dementia
By Adam Cheshire

The gray matter held sturdy through our childhood, save a few cracks that ran jagged along the court’s edges.  We didn’t dribble our basketballs there anyway, so it didn’t bother us.  Balls in the backyard like a pumpkin patch; my brother and I would pretend as much when dad told us to pick them up so he could mow.  We’d toss them into the wilted wooden floor of the swing set, along with sticks and brush from previous summers.  The swing set was demolished around high school, the family of branches and balls—now just half-moon husks curled inward, fetal—separated and hauled away, leaving behind a long, dark patch of grass.
 
But the loss opened up an end zone for football, and I doubt we ever missed the rusted swings, or that yellow, molded-plastic one that we had outgrown years ago but still dangled there, all the same.  And dad had to’ve enjoyed his Hall of Fame role as all-time quarterback more than the monotony of watching his sons travel back and forth to nowhere or staring at a pile of rotting and useless things. 
 
There had been a dog lead attached to the top of the swing set.  It had stayed up there long after our first dog had been given away, perhaps for sentimental reasons, but its loss never affected us, and truth be told, that dog had a weird, unhinged vibe.  So it was with great relief that when I had no other choice in college but to bring Huck home to my parents that he turned out to be so kind and loving.  And since none of my old friends were around town anymore, and my brother off to law school out west, my dad had no use for the football field or his throwing arm, so Huck had a yard of his own in which to flip and wag.  Dad would watch him all day with a goofy grin as Huck ran in circles or wiggled his back along the dark grass, as if this land had only ever existed for this and this alone.
           *
No swings, no sticks, no sports—no welcoming barks.
 
Dad and I are looking out the kitchen window.  A cold, wet morning.  The backyard a dark, dreamy green--the glisten of my daughter’s eyelashes as she attempts to dribble a basketball, smacking at it with arms made stiff by her thick pink coat.
 
“Strange about the grass there,” Dad says.  “How much darker it is than the rest.”
 
I bite at a nail.  “It’s seen its fair share of wear and tear, wouldn’t you say?”
 
He stares for an uncomfortable moment.
 
“There’s been a lot, huh?”
 
I nod.  My daughter is making snowless snow angels.  We’d hoped for something sparklier than rain.
 
I look past her to the concrete court, fuzzy from years of fallen things.  There have been no sneakered feet cracking through its thick layers, no imprints of youthful summers.  I almost forget it’s there.
 
“You know what might be nice for her to have out there?” he says, a giddy idea brightening his clouded mind.
 
An edifice of memories, stacked one on top of the other.  That might be nice.  Something to hold us up, our terminal minds.
 
“A swing set you thinking?”
 
“Wouldn’t that be something?”  He grabs my shoulder, rubs it roughly.  I almost tense, wait for a slap on the back, him sending me off to run a buttonhook up the middle of the field.  A touchdown in the end zone, for certain.
 
“And maybe I can even call a buddy of mine.  Lays concrete.  Get a court set up.  Have her friends over, huh?”
 
What might come from this?  What might she retain from it all?  What might I, in time, lose?
 
He’s not here, he’s in the past.
 
“That little yellow bucket thing. You were on it, but you couldn’t move your arms to pump the swing.  Or an arm, you had just had one of your shots.  A vaccine or something.  It was sore, your arm. The teenage neighbor hopped the fence and pushed you.  You were so happy, I can see your face as if I were looking at it right now, from this window.  She had saved you from the stillness.  I can still see it.”  He is wide-eyed, transcendent.  “You remember, don’t you?” 

I want to, but I can’t.  I’ll try, though, even if I have to make it up.

Adam is a writer living in Hillsborough, NC.
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Missing
By Marlene Olin

I'm a creature of habit.  I count on the old woman's appearance like I count on the mailman, the lawn guy, the dented truck that flings the morning papers.  Every day I peek between the curtains and watch her scuttle down the street.
 
Cruise Miami and you'll see gated communities, houses with bars across the windows, cars with darkened glass. But our little slice of suburbia is family friendly. Wide sidewalks. Signs that say, "Drive like your kids live here."  Teens skateboard. Mothers push strollers. Toddlers trike.
 
And everyone knows the old lady. She heads straight for the road, her spine hunched, her spidery hands reaching, her feet encased in orthopedic shoes. And with her, always two paces ahead, is the dog.  A dachshund terrier combo--barking, yapping, scrounging-- and never on a leash. The two of them loop figure eights up and down the block, past the mailboxes and the garbage cans, dodging traffic and sprinklers. Cars honk. Cats hiss. The sprinklers sometimes missing, sometimes not. Arcing. There and not there. Like waving hands. Hello. Goodbye. Hello.
 
It's been what?  Three four days. So I figure the old lady is visiting some friends. Everyone knows her living arrangement. It's the lady, the dog and the nephew.  After all Thanksgiving's coming up. Why couldn't she have friends?
 
At night the lights are on. The nephew's car is in the driveway. I can swear I hear the thump thump thump of rap music fisting the air. Who really knows? Show me four walls and a roof, and I'll show you a house full of secrets.
 
***
The holiday, as always, presents challenges. I hang a wreath of festive corn on the front door. I plop a bowl filled with decorative gourds on the coffee table. My menus are pumpkin-inspired. Pumpkin bread. Pumpkin ravioli. Pumpkin soup. But no matter the effort, despite my cornucopia earrings and russet colored nails, the world's atilt. The old lady still hasn't made an appearance.  If I watch the street long enough, if I stare without blinking, I see her shadow. She's there and not there. A ghost. A flicker. Her and that dog walking and not walking down the street.
 
"Mom, can we go outside!"
 
On Thanksgiving day the temperature drops. It's a brisk seventy degrees, the air's crisp, the sky's clear. It's Miami's version of autumn. Since there's no school, kids are tossing footballs. A few fitness fanatics are jogging, their earbuds roping round their necks.
 
The enthusiasm is contagious.
 
"Can we go outside! Can we go outside!" shout the children.
 
Jacques is nine and Jacqueline's seven and they itch to be anywhere else.
 
"Let's play frisbee!" says my husband Kurt.
 
That lasts for around fifteen minutes. By nine o'clock they're back in the house glued to the TV. Like the rest of America, we watch the Macy's Day Parade.  Snoopy balloons. Marching bands. Teenaged celebrities no one's heard of.
 
You can tell it's really cold in New York. The TV announcers have a mike in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. Onlookers are bundled in millions of layers. But the temperature doesn't faze the performers. Mary Poppins waltzes with her umbrella, Eliza Doolittle prances with her flower cart. Some thirty-year-olds dressed as high school kids pretend they're at a prom.
 
We love it. Doesn't everyone love it? When I glance at my family sitting on the couch, I feel my heart lurch.  It's a Kodak moment. The children have their mouths open, their little fingers tapping the tunes. Kurt's sipping his kale/carrot/acai protein shake while the world's cutest foam moustache sits on his upper lip. It's impossible not to smile!
 
"Look, Mom," says Jacqueline. "The singers don't have sweaters!"
 
I try on my most assured voice. "They're professionals," I tell her. "Professionals don't need sweaters. Professionals can do anything."
 
Kurt puts his glass on the coffee table next to the gourds. He forgets to use a coaster even though there's a tasteful display of coasters three inches away.
 
"Professionals my ass, " says Kurt. "They're lip-syncing."
 
I look closer at the screen. I can't believe it but he's right. Thousands of people have lined up for hours to see this parade. They've dragged their kids. They fought the crowds. And for what?
 
And suddenly I picture The Scream. You know. That famous painting of the man opening his mouth, soundless, with not a peep coming out.
 
"You mean they're faking it?" I say. "They're just opening and closing their mouths pretending to sing while everyone else is pretending to listen?"
 
The kids have that watery look they get seconds before they cry. Kurt sits back on the couch, smug.
 
"You got it, sweetheart. I hate to burst your bubble. It's all part of the show."
 
***
I spend the rest of the day agonizing over dinner. One cooking website is more depressing than the next.  Eat Your Way To Lower Lipids.  A Probiotic Is Your Best Friend. Fifty Ways to Leave Out Butter.
 
A confession.  Since the day he turned forty, Kurt has been obsessed with his health. He tracks his steps, his heartbeat, his calorie intake. He studies nutritional labels like they're encrypted codes. So in place of a bird, I'm serving up Tofurky. Then I artfully arrange artisanal vegetables around a platter. It's more still life painting than food. When it's time to eat, the kids sink into their chairs, sulk.
 
"My, doesn't this look delicious," says Kurt. 
 
He figures sex is good for three four hundred steps and knowingly gives me a wink. Then he taps his spoon on the water glass. While he's not teaching Sociology at the community college, Kurt sells insurance.  Either way he's used to a captive audience. We all know a history lesson is coming our way. The kids look at each other, smirk.
 
"Today, families all across this country are commemorating a holiday. But does anyone at this table know what we are commemorating?"
 
Jacques is one of those kids set on autopilot. Potty-trained himself at two. Taught himself to read at three.  His little hand flies up while he wiggles in his seat. But Kurt quickly jumps in.
 
"We are celebrating the destruction of our indigenous tribes," said Kurt. "We are celebrating the decimation of unique cultures. Sure Squanto gave us corn but what did we give Squanto? Smallpox!  That's what we gave him."
 
Everyone's quiet. The kids aren't eating. They're just rearranging their food.
 
"I'm hungry," says Jacques.
 
"Is it time for dessert?" says Jacqueline.
 
Ten minutes later a milk-free gluten-free low cal cheesecake sits on the table. Even the dog's not interested.
 
"I think that Grinch cartoon's on TV," I say in my chirpiest voice. "How about if we stay up a little late tonight and watch?"
 
For me, the holidays are all about corny movies. Who doesn't love those corny movies? I love the commercials best. I love carolers and egg nog and robotic Santas that smile and wave. And everything's covered in snow. Don't you love snow? Clean white snow.
 
Jacqueline claps her hands. Some kids are happy happy happy no what matter what.
 
"Hurrah! Mommy says we can stay up late! Hurrah!"
 
Meanwhile Jacque's twirling his fork, his head at an angle, his little chin twirling with it. The vegetables and gravy look like spin art, the Milky Way spun on a plate. But suddenly he looks up. Then holding the fork like a scepter, he lisps. "Dr. Seuss was an anti-Semite. Didn't you know? You're not supposed to watch Dr. Seuss."
 
***     
The day after, the temperature's dropped even further.  The curbs are piled high with Hefty bags while the neighborhood dogs go nuts.  They're thinking turkey carcasses, pecan pie, string bean casserole. But I'm thinking body parts. I'm thinking the nephew carved up that little old lady and is serving her almondine.
 
Years ago, I'm told, there was a husband. But instead of kids, they had pets. A regular pied piper, the old lady was the sort of person who fed feral cats, cooed to pigeons, left bowls of kibble for errant ducks. But when the husband died, things slid. Then one day, Mrs. Schwartz on 71st Court found her wandering in her housecoat. Mr. Castillo nearly a half mile over found her chasing that dog in his backyard.
 
You'd see a plumbing truck whiz by and know right where it was heading. It's that old lady, everyone would say.  She's flushing lettuce down the toilet and storing toilet paper in the frig. You'd see one of those appliance repair guys and think what did she do this time?  Microwave her fry pan? Throw a cat in with the wash?
 
So around a year ago the nephew Carlos moved in.  A gold tooth, gold chains, slicked back hair. He made no secret of his master plan. Growing up in Miami, I speak a fair amount of Spanish. But this guy talked Cuban. He'd chat to anyone who'd listen but the words flew fast.
 
"Jou see, eet's like this. My tia, she old. She die. I get rich!"
 
***
There's a big football game on so Kurt's invited a few friends over to watch.  I guess the game's kind of boring because soon everybody's talking politics.
 
The top item on the news is the murder of that journalist in Turkey.  One minute the poor guy thinks he's getting married, goes to pick up some paperwork at a consulate, and the next minute he's sliced and diced. There and not there. Poof! The story seems pretty black and white. Even Trump's foot soldiers in Congress are mumbling into the cameras.
 
"Of course, the Saudis killed him," says Kurt. "The whole thing had to be planned."
 
Then Kurt gets this look on his face like the world has only so many questions and he has the answers to all of them.
 
"But does it matter? Even if they caught the whole thing on video--which, by the way, I'm sure they did--would it make a difference? There is no truth. There is no fiction. There's only news."
 
Well that shuts everyone up. I'm heading in and out of the kitchen, refilling the guacamole and replenishing the chips. Then all of a sudden Harv, the guy who lives two doors down, pipes up.
 
"I hear Carlos bought a Harley. V-Twin Engine. Six speed transmission. Now how the hell can he afford a Harley?"
 
           ***
By the end of the day, the sun's baking on the asphalt and whatever's in the trash is starting to ripen. The garbage trucks were due hours ago and who knows if they'll ever come. Meanwhile every dog in the county seems to have gravitated to the old lady's house. They're sniffing and pawing a Hefty bag like the world's fattest turkey leg's inside it.
 
The kids are pulling at my sleeve. Dinner's supposed to be leftovers but they're itching for Pizza Hut.
 
"The dogs sure like Carlos' garbage," said Jacqueline.
 
We peek between the curtains and collectively blink. The Hefty bags are slowly shredding. Little pieces of black plastic are flying up and down the street. Meanwhile Mr. DelGado's Bichon is running around with a piece of calico snatched between her teeth. Red and flowery. It looks vaguely familiar. Like housecoat material.
 
Once again Jacques has tears in his eyes. "I'm worried about the old lady," he whispers. "Do you think she could have died?"
 
           ***
The following morning Jacqueline walks into our bedroom bright and shiny. She's hopping on one foot then the other while pulling on her crotch.
 
"Guess what?" she says. "The old lady's back. The old lady's back with her dog."
 
I jump out of bed, put on my bathrobe and run into the living room. Then together, we look outside. And there for all the world to see is the little old lady in a brand new housecoat. That dog, that mangy mutt, is peeing on the mailbox right in front on my house.
 
I'm shocked. And to tell the truth, a little disappointed. It's like when a hurricane's heading your way.  You buy the batteries and the flashlights. You stock up on water and canned tuna. You spend days boarding up the windows. Then just at the last minute, when you've done everything you possibly can, it turns and heads straight for Pensacola. There then not there. Gone.
 
"Stay here," I say to Jacqueline. Then I run toward the street.
 
The old lady's walks in a waddle, listing from side to side, her knobby knees miles apart. It's takes me two three minutes just to get her attention. Since she's really old and mostly deaf, I speak loudly and slowly. Since I don't know her name, I just shout "Excuse me" instead.
 
"EXCUSE ME. EXCUSE ME, " I say. 
 
She looks at me like I'm her best friend. Then she takes a shaky finger and touches my shoulder. Her grin is jack-o'-lantern scary, as toothless and hollow as an empty sock. Then she leans over and with a blast of fetid breath says either "How you?" or "Kung Fu." Before I can answer, before I can process her crazy gobbledygook, she waddles down the street a little more.
 
           ***
I suppose the best part of Thanksgiving is when it's over. Then everyone can concentrate on Christmas. Parking lots are filled with evergreens, our mailbox is stuffed with catalogues, palm trees are wrapped with blinking lights. I love driving to the mall and hunting for bargains. Who doesn't love malls?  Who doesn't love shopping?  But Kurt says that money's tight. Kurt says in no uncertain terms we're on a budget this year. The kids have all they need, he says. Do they really need more?
 
So finding the receipt was a little confusing.
 
A confession. I really wasn't snooping when I found it. I was cleaning his closet and there is was...a piece of paper lying on the floor. Okay it was on a shelf.  Well, not just sitting on a shelf but more like tucked into his wallet.  After working out, he's in the shower for twenty thirty minutes. I doubt he'll know it's missing.  It was there then not there. What's the harm?
 
The receipt is from Tiffany's.  A whopping $2,000 bracelet bought last week in a store across town. Of course I don't usually wear bracelets. They're a pain to clasp and a pain to unclasp and try yanking off those yellow cleaning gloves with a bracelet on your wrist.
 
So is there a message here? Is Kurt saying, Sweetheart. You need a bracelet. You deserve a bracelet. After all, the best gifts are those you'd never buy for yourself.  You may think you don't like bracelets. You may consider them impractical or wasteful and maybe you had your eye on that $500 Vitamix blender instead.  And don't worry about the money! Who worries about money? The best time to splurge is when you're nearly broke!
 
But then again there are other possibilities. Possibilities that push and pull my brain in all directions. Like that twenty-something trainer at his health club. Or the new secretary in the Sociology Department. Or that grad student who leaves him messages day in and day out on his phone.  Not that I check the phone...             
Marlene Olin's short stories have been published or are forthcoming in journals such as The Massachusetts Review, Eclectica, The American Literary Review, and Arts and Letters. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of The Net, Best Small Fictions, and for inclusion in Best American Short Stories.

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