Foliate Oak March 2014

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Fiction

Before the Storm
By Kyle Beasinger

The air was thick and induced sweating within moments of exposure.  It was the kind of morning where it was almost too difficult to take a deep breath.  The grass smelled sweet and the cicadas rang loud throughout the golf course.  Clouds were moving in from the East -- George and Phil would have to hustle to beat the rain.

George and Phil stood at the tee box watching the group in front of them, then the sky above.  They would switch their gaze every few moments as if they expected the sky to fall and crush everyone in front of them.    

George pulled a small, yellow Bic lighter out of his plaid shorts pocket.  A long Macanudo cigar was perched in his mouth, the tip covered in slobber.  His Callaway Big Bertha driver leaned against his hip like a skinny third leg.  He fiddled with the lighter, making sparks but no flame.  The humidity had made his fingers swell and the sweat that covered his skin made his fingers greasy.  He wiped his hands on his purple polo and he rolled the lighter in the hem of his shorts.  He held the lighter up to the end of the cigar and tried again.  With a click click he was able to finally get flame and light his soggy cigar.

He took a few deep drags and blew the smoke straight up, craning his neck.  The smoke hung in the air like a portrait; it made the air sweet for a moment, but only for a moment.  The humidity quickly swallowed it and reminded George that the sand bunkers weren’t the only adversaries this morning.

Phil stood behind George with a cup of ice between his feet and his Taylormade R7 driver wedged under his elbow.  He had a Rolling Rock in one hand and tried to twist off the top.  The bottle was covered in condensation, standing no chance against the day’s heat.  Frustrated, he untucked his yellow, mesh polo and spun a corner of it in his hand.  He used the covered hand to twist off the cap which he threw at the golf cart, pinging off the front wheel rim.  He picked up the glass of ice from between his feet and poured the beer into the cup.

“Hey, Georgie. Did I tell you about my brother in Michigan that was in that polka band?”  Phil’s gaze never left the cup.

“The song about beer and ice.  Yeah, you told me.”

“They were practically famous.  You know... for a polka band.”

George picked up his driver and pointed the head down the fairway. “Do these assholes know their not the only ones on the course?”

A portly woman in a white skirt made her way to her ball and took her stance.  She wound up and hit.  The ball puttered down the fairway about thirty yards.

“Women shouldn’t be allowed on the golf course on a Saturday morning-- taking their sweet ass time,” George took a long pull on his cigar.  “It’s like they forgot that at one point that didn’t have any rights in this country.”  George sent a thick stream of smoke into the air and walked back to the cart and sat in the driver’s seat.  When he sat the seat squeaked like fingers swiping across a balloon.  He adjusted his shorts which were sticking to his butt cheek.

Phil stood to the side of the cart sipping his beer and tapping the head of his driver softly against the front cart tire. “Don’t worry, Georgie.  We’ll beat the weather.”

“I know that.  I just have a date tonight.”

George was a retired dentist and a widower.  He had lost his wife to pancreatic cancer the previous year.  They had plans to tour the European golf circuit but never got the chance to do so.  After her death, George grieved for several months.  He took comfort in solitude until his sister-in-law stopped by one afternoon and consoled him in a way only a woman could.  After that George took up dating again.  He dated former patients and other friends of his deceased wife.

George’s outlook on life changed.  He bought designer jeans and wore shirts unbuttoned down to his sternum.  He wore a gold chain necklace and several rings; he looked like a nursing home pimp.

He enjoyed golfing with Phil and did so at least three times a week.  Phil-- also a retiree-- was married with no children.  His wife spent her time at the clubhouse playing cards and gossiping with the other gray-haired ladies of the club.  Both, George and Phil, having grown up an only child,  bonded quickly and rarely did things without the other.  Through the painful struggle of his wife’s death, Phil was George’s closest confidant.

George tapped the excess ash off the end of his cigar and hoisted himself out of the golf cart.  “I’m not waiting anymore.  I’m hitting.”

George teed up his ball, took a few practice swings and hit.  The ball soared through the air with a slight draw.  With a few bounces the ball made it’s way down the fairway and into the back of the pudgy woman’s golf cart.  The loud thwack made her jump and drop her club.

A tall, spindly woman with a long, flat visor stepped out of the cart and examined the back of the it.  She meandered back and forth, scanning the ground.  The pudgy woman clutched her chest and took long, labored breaths.  The ball laid just behind the right tire which the tall woman picked up with her spider-like fingers.  She cocked her arm to the side and threw George’s ball back towards him but only traveled around fifteen feet.  Her mouth flapped open and closed and she held one arm straight up in the air as if pointing to the sun.  Closer examination would reveal that she was, in fact, not pointing at the sun, but giving George and Phil the middle finger.

Phil laughed and rocked on his heels. “Oh hell, Georgie.  No worries, brother.  I’ll give you a free drop.  That shot was right in the tailpipe.”  Phil took a sip of his iced beer and walked over to the golf cart.

George stood on the tee box, never breaking his gaze from the ladies down the fairway.  He took another ball out of his pocket and teed it up. “Mulligan.”

“What?” said Phil, cocking his head. “Georgie, come on, brother.  You almost hit them already.  They’ll pick up the pace.”  

But George was already in his backswing and didn’t stop.  He swung as hard as he could, blasting the ball down the fairway.  That ball didn’t have the same trajectory as the first; it was more of a straight shot, like a rocket.

George dropped his driver and cupped his lower back. “God damn it!”

The ball danced past the ladies cart and into the rough.

Phil hobbled up the tee box and over to George.  “You alright, Georgie?”

“Fine.  Just over rotated.”

The older ladies down the fairway took off in their golf cart, running over George’s second ball as they went past. 

“Just hit,” George nursed his back, rubbing in small circles.  “We need to beat this weather.”

Since his retirement, George had finished every round of golf he played-- rain or shine.  George was a man that saw things through to the end no matter how things were going.  He only retired because his last patient died in the dentist chair during a routine cleaning.  Death was George’s only deterrent.

The patient was an older gentleman that had just moved to town from Sarasota, Florida.  He was a heavy drinker and smoker.  His teeth were stained and caked with tartar and plaque.  He came in for several visits in one week because everything couldn’t be removed in one sitting.  The buildup was so intense that the man asked to be put under so as not to feel any pain.  George was in the middle of an intense flossing when his assistant came into the room and told George that he had a phone call that he needed to take.  George excused himself and patted the gentleman on the shoulder.  It was George’s wife with news of her cancer.    

George returned an hour and a half later, dazed and overwhelmed.  He figured the large gentleman’s anesthesia had worn off by now and would have to apologize for the inconvenience, and reschedule for another time.  He pulled up a chair and slid to the side of the patient.  He took a deep breath, ready to explain what had happened.  Before he said a word he noticed that the man’s complexion was off; his skin was as white as the tiled floor.  George slipped on a pair of bifocals and popped on the overhead light.  He lightly pressed the patient’s chin, opening his mouth.  The patient’s gums and esophagus were stained red.  “Oh, Jesus,” said George.  George ripped off his latex gloves and grabbed the man’s wrist.  Feeling no pulse, George jumped out of his rolling chair and smacked his head on the overhead light.  George grabbed the back of his head and tried to balance himself on his chair which rolled out from under him, sending him to the floor with a thud. 

Hearing the commotion, George’s assistant ran into the room. “Doctor?”

“Call an ambulance,” George said as he rolled on the ground.

“Oh my God,” she cupped her hands around her mouth.  “Oh my God.  Are you alright?”

“It’s not for me -- it’s for him,” George held his back and gritted his teeth.  “He’s dead.”

The assistant’s mouth gaped open and her face paled.  She turned on her heels and took off out of the room.

George yelled after her, “And get me some ice.”     

Later, it would be revealed that the man suffered from hemophilia which he neglected to fill out on his patient information form.  Apparently the flossing had cut his gums which caused him to bleed, drowning him in his own blood.  

Needless to say, George retired only days later.

George and Phil were about to start the eighteenth hole when the bottom dropped out and the rain came pouring down.  They found shelter under the awning of the bathroom that sat between holes seventeen and eighteen.

George’s cigar was smoked down to a nub which he held bit between his teeth.  This gave his face a perpetual grimace.  He examined his back: ran fingers on each side of his spine, pressed softly on his tailbone, bent slowly up and down.

“I got some Bengay in my bag, Georgie.  You want it?” said Phil.

George just shook his head and looked out at the rain.

Phil ran out into the rain, over to the golf cart.  He rustled through a cooler in the back of it and fished out some ice.  He plunked the cubes in his glass, grabbed a fresh Rolling Rock, and ran back under the awning.

George pulled the cigar out of his mouth, spit, and checked his watch.  “This rain needs to pass in the next ten minutes or we’re playing through it.”

“Don’t think that’s a good idea, brother.  I can see lightning out over those trees.”

“Well, either it passes or I play through.  It’s only one hole for Christ’s sake.”

“I’ll ride with you, Georgie.  But I’m not playing in this.”

George extinguished his cigar on the side of the bathrooms, twisting it deep into the wall.  “Your call.  But I paid for eighteen.  So I’m playing eighteen.”

The lightning drew closer.  Thunder blasted through the air and reverberated in George and Phil’s chests.  George was still around two hundred yards away from the pin.  He pulled a five wood out of his bag and walked over to his ball.  Rain stung his face and had thoroughly soaked his clothes.  Phil sat on the passenger side of the golf cart, bundled up in a raincoat.  “Adjust for the wind,” Phil said. George hit his shot which landed twenty feet from the pin, just off the green.

George and Phil pulled up to the side of the green only to find the ranger-- Thomas-- waiting for them.  George pulled the cart up next to Thomas’. 

Thomas was a retired manager from a plastics corporation that specialized in toilet seats.  George and Thomas had become friendly over the past few years.  Thomas took interest in George when his wife died.  He and his wife had George over for corned beef, roasted potatoes with butter, beet salad, and wine on several occasions.  George dated several of Thomas‘ wife’s friends.

Thomas turned his body slowly as if something could break internally at any moment.  He adjusted his bifocals and licked his upper lip.  Each movement he made swished because of his raincoat.  “Thought you fellas would have gone in long ago,” he said.

“Last hole, Tommy.  Almost done.  Georgie here wants to make a complete round,” Phil said.

George shivered, “Don’t want to screw up my handicap.”

“You boys better get inside,” Thomas wiped his nose, “I can’t let you play out here in this.”

Phil leaned out from behind George, “That’s what I told him, Tommy.”  Phil slapped George on the shoulder, “You know how stubborn this guy can be.”

“I heard about it today, actually.  Some ladies in front of you guys came in complaining about you to the club pro.”  Thomas took out a handkerchief from his pocket and coughed deeply into it.  He face flushed red and his eyes teared up.

“Jesus, Tommy.  That sounds horrible.  You should get that checked out,” Phil took a sip from his glass.

“It’s just this fluctuating weather. Hot, cold. Hot, cold; it’s messing with my lungs.”  Thomas wiped his mouth and put his handkerchief back into his pocket.  “Come on, George let’s wrap it up.  Hurry so I don’t get in trouble.”

George grabbed a pitching wedge out of his bag, “Thanks, Thomas.”  He scurried over to his ball and took a few practice swings.  His body shivered and snot gathered on his top lip.  His clothes hung on his body like wet dish rags.  He felt as if he were carrying a loaded backpack, pulling him down.

Lightning flashed and thunder roared.  Cars splished and  splashed puddles as they zipped by.

Thomas had another coughing fit and finally squeaked out, “Let’s go, George.”

George took his club back and swung through the ball.  The ball popped up in the air, bounced, and rolled into the cup.  George threw his arms in the air and yelled.  He hopped up and down, swinging his club like a baton. “Did you see that?  Did you see that?”

Surprised by the silence, George looked back at the golf carts-- which were empty.

“Where’d you guys go?”  George said as he jogged back over to the golf carts.  As he got closer he heard muffled coughing. 

Thomas was on his back coughing and clutching at his chest.  Phil was over him holding his hand, reassuring him.  Phil craned his neck back to George, “Call 911, Georgie.  Hurry.”

George’s mouth hung open.  He blinked several times and shook his head as if to rid a hallucination.  He tossed his club back into his bag and reached deep into his pants pocket.  He pulled out his cellphone and flipped it open.  He mashed a few buttons then shook it. “Damn it!”

“What is it, Georgie?”

“It’s dead.”   

Kyle Beasinger is a writer, producer, and independent filmmaker in Atlanta, Georgia. He enjoys music, movies, and his dogs.
 

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Second Chances
By Michaela Derrick

Tristan. My sun. Tall. Dark. Handsome. His eyes were a deep blue, so blue in fact that when I looked into them I felt free as if I was drifting through the sky. Dark brown hair just above his eyebrows. Built like Adonis. Teeth as white as pearls. Canyon dimples. The smile could brighten anyone’s day.

I never could wrap my head around commitment. I had avoided him in school for days, but he was always on my mind. Later in the week I was at the local hangout when I heard, “Hey Gracie!”

I thought to myself, I hope it’s not him.

I turned around, and there they were. Those blue eyes. My face turned red. I felt the nerves turn into butterflies, then the redness rush to my face as if I were upside down. I replied, “Hey,” with a shaky voice. I figured he’d make fun of me like everyone else because everyone labeled him a player. I mean, why would someone like him even talk to me? What he actually said, “How are you, gorgeous?” threw me off.

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m well; I have a question for you.”

“Just ask it.”

“Why have you been avoiding me? My rep isn’t that bad is it? You can’t believe everything you hear, Gracie. I just want to show you I can be a good guy!” He winked at me. He actually just winked at me. I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked. Why me? He was a god, and I was just a plain Jane. Come on Gracie, reply. He’s waiting on you. “I…I Just don’t know.”

“Well maybe we can hangout; I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow, and we can find something to get into and just talk. Then you can make up your mind.”

“I still just don’t know… I don’t know if I can.. I don’t know..” What I really didn’t know was that night would change my life.

“Come on, it’s only one night. What do you have to lose from just giving me a chance?” My mind told me no you can’t do this, but my heart said you have to. I went with my heart.

“Ok...just one night. Just to try.” I was still trying to convince myself it was a good idea. He smiled that smile with those deep dimples, and then turned around to leave. As soon as my heart was starting to slow down and the color was coming back to my face, he turned around and pressed his luscious lips against mine. I didn’t need any more convincing this was a good idea.

The next morning I woke up with a bright smile. I’m normally not a morning person, but something about today made me so ready to get up and start the day. I went to open my window and the sun shined so brightly. The aroma of fresh grass lingered in my room. The birds chirped their beautiful melodies. I hoped that this day would be amazing. Throughout the day I kept the smile on my face. As time approached I felt the butterflies. The time had finally come. After I got ready I sat in the living room constantly looking out the window. Hours had passed and still no show. I finally gave up. I should have known he would stand me up. What was I thinking someone like him wanting someone like me? I knew I wasn’t worth it. I crawled into bed and went to sleep.

I woke up, and I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was having a panic attack but why? What was happening to me? There was an elephant on my chest. I tried to calm myself but it wasn’t working. I grabbed my inhaler. Finally I felt a little better and I turned on the TV. The news was on and they were talking about a bad wreck that happened last night. Then they showed the truck and how damaged it was. I recognized the truck and my heart sunk. The heading stated that there were no survivors. Tristan was gone. He hadn’t stood me up. He had been in an accident. I’d never see him again. Never see those blue eyes that made you feel free. I started to feel the pain in my chest again. I got up and looked out the window. It was morning but the sky was black. The rain drops pounded against the ceiling. Why did this feel so bad? I barely even knew him. It’s like this left a whole in my heart.

The next couple of weeks I was a zombie. If Tristan wouldn’t have kissed me would he have died? Do I have a disease? Kiss of death. My mom suggested I go to a counselor so on Monday during English I went. The counselor’s name was Julie. “Come here, Hun.” She came to hug me then sat me down. “ I know what you’re going through.”

“No you don’t. I have a hole in my heart and don’t understand.”

“Actually, I do. I lost my husband two years ago.”

“How did you get through?”

“I reminded myself he wouldn’t want me like this.”

“You’re right.”

The next day I made a trip. The day was bright. You could taste the crisp wind. The birds were chirping and you could hear the squirrels running through trees. The leaves were an energetic green. Everything looked so beautiful. I looked over to the hill with the metal fence and cement stone sticking out of the ground. The sun seemed to shine through the trees right on the stone. I looked over and saw a deer and its baby prance across the field in front of the hill. Tristan.
 

Michaela Derrick is a resident of Arkansas. She is a junior in high school and loves to hangout with friends.

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Field of Dreams
By Eric Howerton

On the south end of town the Field of Dreams used to border the Block of Lost Time and the Grotto of Spent Futures. As a child, my parents warned me that journeying into these shadier neighborhoods meant nothing short of contaminating my 
soul.

“Why’s the Field of Dreams so dangerous?” I asked dad once on the way home from Little League. I’d recently turned ten and started challenging my parents’ convictions through a veil of innocent curiosity.

Dad wore canvas work clothes and smelled of oil from the machines. The dirt under his nails looked thicker than the nails themselves.

“It won’t do you any physical harm, but that doesn’t mean the Field is safe.”

“Why not?”

“When you come up on it you’ll see dreams sprouting wild over rolling hills. They’ll look glittery and new. And once you catch a glimpse, that’s it. You won’t be able to keep your hands off.”

“At school they’re always telling us to dream big. To reach for the stars.”

“I know they are. But listen. I grew up with a guy who bought into all the muck they preached at us, and it did him more harm than good. Few years back he went to the Field of Dreams and saw ‘Governor of Pennsylvania’ shimmering in the sun like a head of dewy cabbage. So what does he do? He puts it in his pocket, takes it home.”

“What’s so bad about wanting to be governor?”

“Quit interrupting.”

“I only interrupted a little,” I said meekly.

“A little is still a lot.”

We passed a Burger King and a Dairy Queen. I was hungry from practice, but I knew mom had dinner waiting and we couldn’t afford detours.

“Governor of Pennsylvania is a damn ambitious dream, and there are plenty of people out there better suited for the job--wealthy people. This guy was a rice farmer from Louisiana with a hole in every shirt. What I’m saying is he didn’t have the wherewithal to govern sheep, let alone a state. Hell, I don’t think he’d even left Louisiana but once for a funeral in Dallas.

Here dad paused.

“Before all the governor nonsense this guy loved farming rice. The Field messed him up something awful. He used to eat boudin and crayfish, find joy in the simple things. Now he’s miserable: drinks too much, jabbers on about cheese-steaks and reviving the steel industry and raising money for his campaign. You put a plate of bugs in front of him; he wrinkles his nose like a nutter and asks for pierogies. And the worst of it--he couldn't care less if the Saints lose, but if the Eagles take a beating he locks himself up for days.”

“The Block of Lost Time is no safer,” dad continued. “Your mother got confused once leaving the yarn store, took a wrong turn. You know how she is with directions. You ask her which way’s north, and she points at the sun.” This was true. Mom had a miserable compass, but Dad’s wasn't much better. “Claims, she spent a year driving from one end of the block to the other watching the seasons change. When she finally got home she burst through the door and demanded I tell her the date. Her eyes begged me to say she’d been missing more than a few hours, but that was all.”

I asked, “Did she ever stop for gas?”

"She said the tank was always full. That’s how we knew something wasn’t right.”

“And the Grotto of Spent Futures?”

“That’s just where people go to buy drugs. Stay away from there.”

“What do drugs do?” I asked, playing the fool. I’d seen people smoke joints at parties—parties my parents had taken me to—and all that seemed to happen was their eyes got bloodshot or they laughed and ate chips until their stomachs distended.

Dad shook his head. “You get too high, then you go real low,” he said gravely. “You’ll do yourself a favor and not give that grotto another thought.”

I told him that one of the older kids on the team, Jose Sin Zapatos, lived in the industrial park the grotto loomed over.

“I don’t want you hanging around Jose, understand?”

I said, "ok," though I had a hunch my father’s fears were misdirected. True, Jose lived in a bad part of town, but there was nothing bad about him. He was generous and kind, with the eyes of a doe and the heart of an angel. He even felt bad about stealing bases. Coach rotated Jose to every position except shortstop, and when he stepped up to the plate he hit home runs farther than any twelve-year-old I’ve ever known.

I smoked my first joint, not with Jose or anyone from the grotto, but at a New Year’s party while my parents toasted champagne on the porch--ignorant to what changes were taking place in the garage. I was sixteen. By that time Jose had left town. Rumor had it after graduation that he’d gone straight to the Field of Dreams and picked “Play Major League Ball.” He never made it pro, though he did end up playing Triple A for a farm team in Wisconsin. A long way to go for a poor kid from Louisiana.

Nowadays, when I drive past my old diamond, I think of Jose and how my dad was wrong to tell me to steer clear. Maybe if I’d spent a little time with him, I would have found the courage to visit the Field of Dreams myself and pocket something before the city plowed it down and sold it off to strip miners. In another life, I could have avoided these canvas work clothes. Instead, I kept my eyes on the nearest horizon and spent all my energy moving toward it. Whenever i stepped up to bat, I hit nothing but line drives. All along I should have been aiming up and overhead.

Michaela Derrick is a resident of Arkansas. She is a junior in high school and loves to hangout with friends.

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1950
By Edward Palumbo

The ample, red bench seat nestled Tommy’s tiny frame. The pickup coursed over the dirt road that linked a half dozen gray farmhouses and a trail of dust marked the passage. Eddy approached a rise and he increased his speed in effort to negotiate the incline as well as to give Tommy a brief thrill.

"This is like riding in an air-o-plane,” Tommy said with a smile.

“You been in an airplane, boy?"

“No, sir, but I can imagine it."

“Imagination is a good thing,” Eddy replied, “don’t ever let her get away. No matter how old you might get, don’t ever lose that."

“Mama says you been in an airplane lotsa times—in the war."

“That’s right.”

“And that you was a hero.”

Eddy peered out the driver’s window if for no other reason than to avoid the child’s gaze.

“I don’t know if I was a hero,” Eddy said, “just a man in a bad time who had to do his job and he did it. I didn’t like what I had to do, but I did it.”

“Was you scared, Uncle Eddy?”

“When I went in the Navy, I didn’t have a gray hair on my head. When I came out, I was as gray as a ghost. I suppose fear did that. I’m not the man I was when I went in the service. Never will be that man again."

“Mama says you got medals and such, will you show me some time?”

“Yes,” Eddy promised, “yes I will.”

“Mama has my daddy’s medals, but she only showed me them once or twice. She doesn’t like to show them.”

“Well, your mama knows what is best.”

“Was my daddy a hero?” Tommy asked. 

“Yes, son—yes he was.”

“Mama says my daddy was handsome, but that you’re the most handsome man she ever laid eyes on.”

“She’s knows her business,” Eddy conceded,“anyway, I wouldn’t argue her the point.”

Tommy laughed and slapped his thigh. The boy sat up, as they passed a horse farm. 

“Will you teach me to ride a horse some day, Uncle Eddy?”

“I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”
 

Edward Palumbo is a graduate of the University of Rhode Island. His fiction, poems, shorts, and journalism have appeared in numerous periodicals, journals, and anthologies including Rough Places Plain, Flush Fiction, Tertulia Magazine, Epiphany, The Poet’s Page, Reader’s Digest, Baseball Bard, Dark Matter, and poemkingdom.com.

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