Last Furlough, March 1966
By Cecil R. Geary

We travelled by bus from Fort Polk to the railroad depot at Shreveport, Louisiana.  There were twenty of us in dress greens and saucer caps.  We had just completed basic training and were on our first leave from the Army.  Out on the platform, the conductor directed us to the rear of the train and the civilians to the front.  We had an entire car to ourselves and everyone had a bottle.  I was killing the pain with a pint of cheap vodka.

For a while, the drinking and camaraderie provided a diversion from the long journey, but then the loud talk, endless arguments and intermittent outbursts of laughter began to shred my nerves.  The vodka tasted like lighter fluid and the odor of freshly starched uniforms was giving me a headache.  I handed the pint to the Puerto Rican, Cosmos, who was shooting craps with three other GIs on the floor in the aisle way, and told him I was going to the lounge car.  He shoved the bottle in his pocket, asked me to loan him ten dollars and promised to double my money by the time I returned.  I fished a five and five ones out of my wallet and handed them to him.  He tossed two ones on the floor to fade the shooter and lost on the first roll.  Such was our luck.

When I got to the lounge car, I found it packed with well-dressed men and women.  They were standing in small groups, smoking cigarettes, sipping drinks and chattering like a bunch of geese.  The stench of tobacco and perfume permeated every cubic centimeter of air.  Along one side of the lounge was a row of leather booths occupied by singles and couples.  At the far end was a horseshoe bar tended by an elderly black man immaculately attired in red vest, white shirt, and bowtie.  He moved agilely inside the horseshoe trying to meet the demands of the clamoring hoard.  I pushed my way to the bar, squeezed in between two of the suits and ordered a beer.

The bartender set a bottle of beer in front of me.  I laid a dollar on the bar.  He pushed it back.

“The first drink is on the house for servicemen,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.  I wondered if he would be as generous if he knew how many of us were on the train.

The beer was ice cold and wonderful, a refreshing change from the vodka.  I finished it and was about to order another when this tall skinny fellow with a big beak nosed in next to me.  He was wearing a checkered jacket, fisheye tie, and porkpie hat shoved back on his noggin exposing a remarkably sloping forehead.  He looked like a character from the funny papers.  A burning cigarette dangled between his fingers. The bartender asked him what he wanted to drink.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato and grilled onions,” he demanded.

“The buffet is closed sir,” said the bartender.  “All I have is alcoholic beverages and soft drinks.”

“Make it a rib eye sandwich then, medium rare.”

“As I said sir, the buffet is closed.”

“Well give me a platter of chitlins.”

“Sir, we do not serve chitterlings on the train.”

He ignored the bartender and looked over at me.  “What burg are you bound for General?”

“Chicago and I’m not a General.”

“Chicago, great town, best barbecue in the country on the south side.  Army, is it?  Nice uniform.  They clean you boys up real good.  I like to see a fellow doing his part for the country.  Too many punks out on the streets stealing hubcaps these days.  Teach you to be a man in the Army.”  He pushed an ashtray between us and tapped his cigarette on the edge knocking off the ash.  The ashtray reeked of stale tobacco and scorched paper.

“You’ve been in the military, then?” I said, nudging the ashtray back towards him.

“No, Four F, crushed knee.  High school football.  First-string quarterback.  I wouldn’t be much use on the battlefield.”  He gripped the ashtray between his thumb and forefinger and moved it in small circles on the surface of the bar.

“That’s probably a good thing,” I said.”

“What are you, some kind of wise ass?”

“No, I’m just minding my business enjoying a beer.”

“So you’re from Chi Town.”

“I’m traveling that direction.”

“You’ll have to change trains in Kansas City.  That’s the end of the line for this cattle wagon.”

“Yes, I know.”  I stared straight ahead at an imaginary spot on the wall behind the bar.

”You got a long wait in Kansas City.  The Chicago train doesn’t leave ‘til tomorrow morning.  Rode it many times.  Ends at LaSalle Street Station.  Got a bar there called the Bomb Shelter, right outside the station under the street.  Hard to find unless you know where to look.  You go down a couple dozen steps to get to it.  Long narrow place, no tables just a bar.  Fifty cents for a shot and a beer.  Prices never change.  Been bombed there a dozen times.  Mention the name, Zibo Scravanich.  They’ll either set you up or throw you out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Got any plans while you’re in Kansas City?”

“Read War and Peace.”

“That’s a good one.”

“Have you read War and Peace?”

“Not in a long time.  I keep a busy schedule.”

“What do you do?”

“Sells, stocks, bonds, you name it.”

“Sounds like a dream job.”

“You’ve got the dream job.  Where’s them chitlins, bartend’?”  The bartender ignored him.  “How about sharing a platter of chitlins?”

“I don’t eat chitlins.”
 
“You know, a smart fellow like you could do all right in Kansas City.  I know places where you can make a few bucks and pick up some quality leg.”

“I’m not interested.”

“I thought you were a smart fellow, peruses big books and all that.”

“Smart enough not to waste time talking to you.”

He stared hard at me and twisted his mouth around as if he wanted to say something.  Instead, he yelled at the bartender to bring him a short whisky.  The bartender brought over a shot glass and a bottle, but held off pouring the whisky until Pork Pie laid a dollar on the bar.  The bartender took the dollar and filled the shot glass to the brim.  Pork Pie snatched up the glass slopping whisky over the edge, turned to me and said, “Well, here’s to the Army.  You kill a few gooks for me when you get over there.”  He drank the whisky in one swallow, slammed the glass down on the bar, thumped himself on the chest and walked away.

My face was on fire.  I could feel my fists balling up.  I had endured nine weeks of harassment from a diabolical drill sergeant.  I should be savoring this respite rather than letting some jackass get to me.  How easy hatred comes to me, how palliative and uncomplicated.

The bartender laid his hand on my arm and placed a fresh bottle of beer in front of me.

I was on my third beer, thinking I should go back to my seat, when this short, round-faced fellow in a grey flannel suit comes over to the bar and orders a Bloody Mary.  The bartender poured vodka, tomato juice and a couple of drops of pepper sauce into a shaker of crushed ice, shook it vigorously and poured it into a glass.  He set the drink and a saltshaker in front of the newcomer.  The man added salt, sipped the drink and glanced around the lounge.  He looked over at me and asked if I would have a drink with him.  I had had my quota of the obnoxious for the evening, but this one was buying, so I said, “Sure.”

“Would you care for beer or something stronger?”

“Beer’s fine with me.”  I had been in the lounge an hour and had yet to pay for a drink.  There are some benefits to the uniform.

When the bartender returned with the drinks, my benefactor tasted his, then turned to me all glassy eyed and said, “I envy you.”

My immediate thought was the fellow was either drunk or stupid.  I was a couple of months away from shipping out to Southeast Asia where in all likelihood I would get my ass shot off, and he envies me.

“Why is that?”

“You’re serving your country.  That is something to be proud of in my book.”

I wondered what book he had been reading.

“If I were younger, I would be right there with you.”

I thought to myself, that’s because you’re an idiot, but said, “I would have preferred to remain a civilian.”

“I’m sure, but you answered the call.”

“So you think we’re doing the right thing over there?”

“I don’t know how I feel about it, but I believe in this country.”

Great!  First a loudmouthed bigot and now a true believer, I sure was attracting them tonight. 

“So, what do you do for a living?”  I asked.

“I sell farm equipment, tractors, combines, mowers.  My store is outside Leesville near Fort Polk.  I assume that’s where you’re coming from.”

“Yeah, I just finished basic training.”

“Where do you go next?”

“I have fourteen days leave and then it’s back to Polk for advanced infantry training.  Where are you heading?”

“I’m on my way to an agricultural convention in Chicago.  Do you know Chicago?”

“I get up there sometimes.  I stay about twenty miles south in Calumet City.  Where are you squatting in Chicago?”

“The Hilton on Michigan Avenue.”

“Nice place to flop, way beyond my budget.”

“Is it far from McCormack Place?”

“It’s a hike.  I’d take a cab.”

“I’ll remember that.  I’ve never been to Chicago.  If there’s anything you could recommend, things to see and do, I’ll be there several days and I don’t want to sit around my hotel room every night.”

“If you’re looking for girls…”

“No, I was thinking of places with live music or shows, but no strip shows.  I don’t go in for that sort of thing.”

“Well, there’s some jazz and blues clubs up on the north side.  If you're interested in rock or country, there’s plenty of that just about everywhere.  You’ve got to be careful though, some of those places can get rough.”

“What’s Calumet City like?”

“A couple of streets of bars and strip joints.  The rest is residential.  I wouldn’t recommend it unless you go in for the dated and seedy.”

”Have another on me,” he said, and motioned to the bartender.

“Sure, thanks.”

“Name’s Bernard Lee Appleton,” he said, holding out his right hand. “Everyone calls me Lee.”

I shook his hand and said, “Hayward.”

“What did you do before you joined the Army?”

“I didn’t join, I was drafted.  I worked at a steel mill in East Chicago.”

“There’s a booth opened up.  You want to take a seat?”

“Yeah,” I said.  I had been up since five that morning and my legs were starting to feel like rubber.

We took our drinks over to the empty booth.  I pushed aside the overflowing ashtray and dirty glasses left by the previous occupants and glanced out the window.  It was like staring into the void.

Lee rambled on about the convention.  “There’s plenty of new manufacturers these days and the Japanese have entered the market.  For my money, the best equipment is made right here in the USA.  I won’t have any of that foreign junk in my store.”

I was barely listening.  I thought about the card I had from Tasha, a few lines scribbled in her sloppy handwriting informing me she was back in Alabama with her old man.  She closed with, ‘Maybe we can meet in Birmingham when you get leave.’  There was no return address, no phone number, just a postmark, Abbeville, Alabama.  On the reverse was a picture of three white guys in narrow brimmed hats and bib overalls sitting on a bench in front of a courthouse, the U.S. Flag and the Stars and Bars flying from the flagpole behind them.  I could almost smell the sweat and chewing tobacco.

“I’m sorry.  I must be boring you with my shop talk,” said Lee.

“Not at all, I was just thinking about Birmingham.”

“Alabama?”

“Someone said it’s a place I should visit.”

“I don’t know why,” said Lee.  “It’s just a dreary city full of factories and rail yards.”

The dirty mills and stinking oil refineries of East Chicago flashed across my mind.  I could not imagine any place drearier than that.

“Is your family in Calumet City?” Lee continued.

“Just a cousin.  I’ve got an apartment above his club.  My folks live in California.

”What part?”

“San Diego.”

“Nice place, great weather.  You’re not married then?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”  Water trickled down the window in long thin rivulets like translucent strands of hair.

“What about yourself?”

“I’ve got a wife and three daughters.  They wanted to come along, but it wasn’t in the budget.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Yes, but it’s good to get away.  You know what they say.”

“Yeah,” I said, thinking how quickly things can get complicated.

“How did you feel when you got that draft notice?”

“Elated.  It’s not every day you get a letter from the President starting with ‘Congratulations, you have been selected.’  It makes you think you’ve either won a prize or you’re about to be euthanized.”

“That’s very funny,” said Lee.”

“Yeah, I should go on stage.”

“I tried to join the Navy during WW 2,” he continued.  “I failed the physical.  They found a hole in my heart, probably from rheumatic fever when I was a child.  I thought about the Army, but then I met Susan.”

“Susan?”

“My wife.  We’ve been together over twenty years.”

The bartender yelled last call.  Pork Pie and several of the suits rushed to the bar.

“Will you have another?” Lee asked.

“Thanks, but I want to get some sleep before Kansas City.”

Lee leaned over and placed his hand on my knee, “Why don’t we team up in Chicago and have some fun.  We can hit some of those jazz clubs you were telling me about.”

I swept his hand off my knee and stood up.  “Thanks for the drinks.”  I left him sitting there with his mouth agape and pushed my way out of the lounge.  I had had enough of these reptiles.

I reached the GI car and pushed through the double doors.  Some of the fellows were sleeping.  Others were chain smoking cigarettes and sucking on liquor bottles.  Freddy Fuscaldo, the 17 year-old who had lied about his age to enlist, was gazing out the window.  I wondered what he saw out there.  The craps game was still in progress.  I stepped over the shooters to get to my place.

Cosmos was asleep with his head against the window, his feet in their military socks propped on my seat.  I shoved his feet aside and sat down.  He moved his legs around and let his feet hang over the armrest in the faces of the craps players.

“So you’re back,” he said.  “Did you make any important contacts?”

“Yeah, a loudmouthed bigot and an old fag.”

“For that you leave me to these vultures?  They picked us clean, amigo.”  He turned his face into the seatback and was immediately unconscious.  The vodka had done its work.

I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes.  The shouts of the craps shooters rattled in my skull like bursts from automatic weapons.  Everything about this war was wrong and I was wrong for it.  My life might be a mess, but I never wanted to kill anyone.  It seemed absurd that a bunch of politicians could send me off to a war that defied logic.

I jerked upright and opened my eyes.  My head was throbbing and my insides were trembling.  My comrades lay all around me.  A narrow band of light illuminated the frozen masks of their faces.

Cecil (Rick) Geary is a retired social worker who resides in Fort Wayne, Indiana with his wife, Karen and dog, Sarge. He has previously published stories in Foliate Oak, The Abiko Annual, and Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Mr. Geary is the founder of Children’s Sanctuary, Inc. a treatment foster care agency in Indiana and Ohio. He divides his time between traveling and writing. He is presently working on a collection of short stories set in Grayson County, Kentucky.
 

* * * 

Cheap
By Clive Aaron Gill

Bill and Maxine sat opposite each other at the round, kitchen table in their five-bedroom house in Carlsbad, California eating TV dinners bought at the Dollar Store.

Bill watched Maxine chew then he stared out the wide, front window at the palm trees and rolling ocean waves. “What would you like for Mother’s Day?”

Maxine recalled the skeletal images of her siblings with sad, dull eyes and sunken cheeks. She remembered hunger pangs not allowing her to sleep; eating loads of wild berries that resulted in the runs; waiting anxiously for food at a town-sponsored Independence Day picnic.

“I have a ‘two-fer’ coupon for George’s Burgers,” she said. “Buy one meal plus two drinks and the second meal is free.”

Bill thought, I remember times when Mother, my brother and I were always hungry. Mother had to take us to a convent for orphans. I’ll never forget the day she left us with three nuns wearing black dresses, white collars and white bibs. He said, “How about a nice restaurant?”

“George’s Burgers is just fine,” she replied, pursing her lips over her broad mouth. She sighed impatiently and blew strands of black-dyed hair from her face. “I checked into prices for a three week cruise from Barcelona to France, Italy, Greece, Turkey and Croatia. The ‘two-fer’ is $19,799 for a room with two beds and a private verandah. If we book six months in advance we’ll get a twenty percent discount. Do you think we can afford it?” she asked, biting her lower lip.

Bill stretched his thick neck from side to side. “With our retirement incomes and my job we can come up with the money.”

“You should give up your job.”

“Why?”

“You’re getting too friendly with that young flirt,” Maxine said, glaring with wide eyes at his pear-shaped body. “Must you hug each other every day?”

“I give hugs to the other drivers.”

“I don’t trust her!” said Maxine, banging her fist on the table. Her facial veins grew large.

“Calm down…”

Silence filled the room.

Maxine drew a long breath and turned her head sideways momentarily. “I’ll email Antonio and Dolores.”

“Who?”

“The nice old couple from Barcelona we met on our last cruise. I’ll ask them if they can let us know of a reasonable hotel near them for a couple of nights before this cruise starts.”

“O.K.,” Bill said, stroking his pointed chin.

“After they reply that we should stay in their home, I’ll tell them we plan to extend our stay to a week.”

“We’ll feel freer in a hotel.”

“Don’t argue! Staying with them will not be a problem.”

Bill wiped his bald, shiny head. He studied her severe eyes, like someone who examines his reflection in a mirror, and shrugged. “Remember the time I changed my order from salad to steak and lobster, when Mark said he was gonna pay?”

Maxine slapped the table. “You’re so cheap!”

Bill laughed and gave a satisfied sigh.

Maxine sniffed, tapped her thin fingers, made fish-lips and slowly revealed a crooked smile.

Clive Aaron Gill’s short stories have appeared in Pens on Fire, Every Day Fiction, espresso stories, Short Humour, Postcard Shorts, Indiana Voice Journal, The Screech Owl, Linguistic Erosion, Wilderness House Literary Review, Gravel Literary Journal, Shark Reef literary magazine, Larks Fiction Magazine and in 6 Tales magazine.
 

* * * 

The Numbness Within
By Philip Goldberg

Birthdays mean nothing to me.

Been years since I last celebrated one.  My 34th, I remember it like I recall the first time I had sex, and the last.  Whatever. Today marks my birthday. All 43 years of my life rolled into one day on the calendar: a mere 24 hours. Birthday blues? Call it that if you must. To me, it’s more than that. Much more.

I gaze out the bug-splattered windshield of my parked Impala, circa 2003. Before me, the low-built apartment complex spreads out, a vista of faded red brick, single-paned windows and fiberglass entry doors. Summer leaves’ shadows dapple the façade, twitching in the gentle breeze. Sitting behind the steering wheel, I ponder how shadows play an important part in my life. The ones I see and the ones I don’t.  

With hesitation, I exit my car. The door’s squeak assaults my ears. I need to oil the hinges. I’ll get to it… eventually. My eyes lock on the empty parking space where Bill Hammer’s pickup truck used to cast its own shadow. I swallow hard and recall that red Silverado with its chrome rimmed wheels and extra cabin space. Every free moment, he tinkered under the hood, checked the tire pressure, gave it the kind of tender loving care usually reserved for another human being. I’d be lying if I said that it hadn’t weirded me out. Yet at the time he seemed like a good neighbor, someone you shared a six-pack with, talked NASCAR, groused over stresses of the job, and escaped family pressures. He listened well, advised little and rarely clouded the air with his own personal storms.

I needed that. I liked that.

But that was then.

I enter my four-room cave. Been here for years, since before the birthday celebrations ceased. Dusty light bleeds through open slats of window blinds. Stale cigarette smoke chokes the air. A pack a day man I am. “Green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam I am,” I quote. My daughter when she was young loved that rhyming stuff that doctor guy wrote.  Somehow the line has stuck with me.

Fighting the urge for a smoke, I march to the fridge and grab a cold can of beer. One bad habit trumps another. Popping the tab, I rain brew down my throat, soaking my tongue, my gullet, my soul. Oh, how good it feels. One of the few things that still does.

Plopping into the recliner across from the wall-mounted television—the only furnishings left in the room—I let loose a long sigh, almost a yelp. No one greets me. No dogs, no cats, no humans. Not a soul has in years. Allison, my wife, and I split up about a year after I had stopped celebrating my birthday.

Edgy, I run my hand across the faux leather arm of the chair. It feels like the slipcovers that used to wrap the sofa and chairs in my parents’ living room. Adhesive to bare skin, I still feel the sting of peeling from it. At its memory, I squirm. Thank good ol’ Jesus I’m wearing a shirt. Albeit a sweaty shirt but who cares? No stick. No sting.

Leaning back, I rerun my day of checking bedside charts at St. Mary’s Hospital and recording them into an iPad I carry. Bullshit work. But it’s a job. After not working for two years, an eight-hour shift feels good (something else that still feels good).

Pride disappeared months after being shelved at the tool plant. No, my job didn’t get outsourced. I fucked up, took too many days off. At first, everyone understood. Hell, they even encouraged me to take time off. But like aspirin for a hangover, good intentions wear off faster than you’d like, or need.

I finish the beer and crush the can, knowing full well that it was more than the days off that canned me. Not doing what was asked of me at times didn’t help, or did talking back at other times and sulking most of the time. With all this going down, they sent me to see a shrink. Now talking to a shrink is just more aspirin. Add Lexapro and Celexa, which I took whenever I felt. Guess that’s why the meds failed. The ax came down on me soon after. At this, I smirk. Smirking is my new smile. I dig that. Think I’ll have those five words engraved on my tombstone.  

Thirsting for another beer, seeking the company of that frosty can chilling my hand, I go get not one, but all remaining five in my fridge. I pop my second beer and it rushes down my throat. My tongue wipes foam from my lips. “Bull’s-eye,” I say satisfied. With cans in hands I pace the living room. A million watts of images stream and voices hum through my head.

Jessie, my 15-year old daughter, is chief among them: Her curious eyes, her emotive lips. Violently I shake my head. Images break apart like poor television reception. Voices grow garbled. As soon as I stop shaking my head, her face returns before me. It always does. It stares at me. It mesmerizes me.  

The back of my neck grows hot, sweaty. My mouth grows dry. I consume more beer, which douses my increasing urge for a smoke.

Everything feels as if it occurred yesterday. Close. Smothering. I gulp some air. A fly buzzes me. I swat at it. Damn bug flies off. I stare at the front door. Years later I still see Jessie there, posing as teenage girls do, in her bright summer dress. Her smile added wattage to the room’s light. It electrified me, illuminated my soul. I smiled back, spirited and warm. No smirking then.

"Eleven” my wife shouted from the kitchen. Begrudgingly my daughter nodded, her eyes pleading with me. “Can’t hear you,” my wife barked. I raised my eyebrows at my daughter. She widened her eyes in return. “Yes,” she said. A slight huff blew the word through her lips. “Later,” she whispered to me and then danced out the front door on her way to her friend, Amanda’s house.

Gone.

Missing.

What could I have done? Nothing. How could I have prevented it? Doubtful I could have. What had I missed? So much. Can you spell g-u-i-l-t?

I claim another beer.

The day after Jessie disappeared, Allison and I sat across from two cops. As one took notes, the other stared at us as if gauging whether or not we were telling the truth. I held my wife’s hand, cold and damp. Occasionally, I looked in her eyes. They appeared vacant at times. Other times they appeared fearful, as she mumbled: “It can’t be.” “This is not happening.” Or “God help us.”

Within days, Allison started playing the “if only” game. “If only I’d done this,” she exclaimed. Or, “If only you’d said that,” she accused. Of course, I lacked answers, which fused her anger.  Who would have had any? Soon she widened the gap between us. Whenever I tried to cope with her, or soothe her, she protested: “Leave me alone.” Or whenever I tried to embrace her, she shook me off like a flea, snapping: “Back off. I need space.” Eventually I gave up.

Tired of pacing, I sit. The fly buzzes me again. Where did it come from? Probably entered with me. It lands on the top of my beer can. Is that bug lapping up some brew? I shake the can, and watch it take flight, whizzing about the air like some giddy stunt pilot. “Happy birthday,” I mutter, hoisting the can toward it in a mock toast. My party guest, I muse. My past is my gift, boxed, papered and bowed. My smirk returns. The fly lands on the wall of moving shadows. I blink a few times, trying to banish the shadows, the fly from the wall. It doesn’t work. They mock me by their presence, by their movement. Frustration overflows, and I hurl the beer can at them. It hits the wall with a wet thud. Suds spray the wall and leave their stain, joining the others caused by various thrown beers and liquors.  The fly buzzes off, its tiny body chilled by the splattered beer.

The cold room iced my skin. Goosebumps erupted along exposed flesh as I stared at Jessie’s lifeless body laid out on the metal table. Her skin was the color of classroom chalk. Her electrifying stare permanently switched off. In the fluorescent glare, the bruises around her neck, wrists and ankles appeared luminescent. Touching her hand, it felt colder than the room. As I noticed that my daughter’s right ear lobe had been severed, my wife crumbled against me, whimpering, crying. At that moment I inhaled the thought that there was no god.

As I exhale and lean forward in my faux leather armchair, I remember that we called Jessie, “God’s Gift” as we’d had trouble conceiving before her. Not long after the “miracle birth” of our daughter, Allison developed cysts in her ovaries. The surgery removed the cysts as well as her ovaries, ending any future births. I sit back, experiencing a succession of small tremors quiver through my body, and recall how we discussed adoption but decided against it. So it was just the three of us.

Overwhelmed, I bury my face in my free hand.

We buried Jessie in a small plot on the outskirts of town. For me, the day was too sunny. The birds chirped too much. The breeze seemed too gentle.  The priest sounded too pleasant. Among graveside guests, Allison and I stood close. I felt numb. To rid myself of this lack of feeling, I placed my hand in hers. But all this accomplished was a greater numbness. After all, who was I fooling? We had grown so far apart.

I place a new can between my thighs, holding it close, tight as I mourn my marriage. Fragile structures, I know; the union between two humans had little chance of surviving the death, the murder of a child. If not for Bill Hammer’s ear at the time, I would have done worse. He came by often, drinking with me, smoking with me, staying with me when no one else would.

So my surprise was deadening when I arrived home from my old job late one afternoon to discover police going in and out of Hammer’s place. Some exited carrying boxes. Some came out toting bags. One walked out holding his computer. A few swarmed his beloved pickup, carefully dusting the doors and inside the cab, going through the glove compartment, searching under the seats.

Betrayal didn’t describe what I felt. Anger was too kind. I wanted to find that bastard and do what he had done to Jessie. But could I? Would I? The numb feeling within me might have prevented my retaliation. It mattered little as he’d already been taken into custody. Sure I felt like one of those damn fools who tell reporters: “Nothing like that ever happened around here”, or “He seemed like an okay guy,” or “He did what!” His sympathetic ear, his compassionate face was all bullshit: a psycho’s mask, a mirrored reflection of what I needed. Turned out that good ol’ Bill had committed more crimes than just this one. Guess that was the reason why he offered so little of himself as we chugged beers, smoked cigs, talked sports.

The beer struggles down my throat. I swear the shadows stop dancing on the wall, and the fly hangs frozen in the air. Probably the alcohol, but I take it as a moment of silence, stillness, nature’s way of apologizing for creating a monster like him.

The next time I laid eyes on that prick was at the trial. By this time, Allison and I had separated, but we sat together in the courtroom, even held hands at times.  We appeared stuck to the backs of our bench as if it had been slip-covered. Even when the prosecutor introduced as evidence a cigar box filled with Hammer’s trophies, and the urge to leap from my seat surged through me, I stayed put. The numbness within, which had been growing inside me since that night more than a year ago, which I’d felt the day they arrested him and the morning of the burial, kept me in my place.

A jury of his peers nailed Hammer, took them less than three hours. The prick was gone for good. Heard that prisoners don’t take kindly to child rapists, teen murderers. Hopefully, he has suffered for his sins at their hands. He had better.

As the light bleeding into the room grows golden, I know darkness will soon take charge. My pain will ooze out only seeping back with the new dawn. I squirm in my chair as a thought occurs: you bury bodies. You never bury pain. 

How could I ever again celebrate the day of my birth in the shadow of Jessie’s death? No way. “Never,” I protest, wanting to chuck another beer against the wall but don’t.  Instead I stand, beer in hand, and walk to the window. Why am I still living here? Guess people think I’m nuts, a stubborn prick, or both. Let them believe what they want. The numbness prevents me. The fear of leaving this place and losing the last physical connection I have to Jessie alive keeps me here. Craving a cigarette, I know I’ll smoke soon. For now, I pull up the blinds and peer out. The fly lands on the window, crawls across the streaky, grimy glass. I have to clean the panes. One day I will. In the distance, I spy some kids playing in the small playground beyond the parking lot. Their happy screams scratch my ears. I imagine blood flowing out of them. I shut my eyes and the sick image disappears. Turning, I face the wall. The shadows darken. In a short time they will cover the wall, cover everything. They always do.

Soon my 43rd birthday will be history.

I walk to the door, open it, but the fly doesn’t depart. So I shut it. The fly ascends into the air and lands on my arm. Staring at the insect, I decide not to swat it. The fly walks along my arm and remains there.

A smile creases my face. It lingers there for a few moments. Only the fly with all his eyes witnesses it. Long enough, I decide.  A wide smirk replaces it and remains planted on my face for quite a while.

It’s time for that smoke.

Over 35 of Philip Goldberg's short stories have appeared in both literary and small press publications including Straylight, Avalon Literary Review, Riding Light Review, The Write Place at the Write Time, and Foliate Oak. Three of his stories have appeared in “Best of” collections and one was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
 

* * * 

The Book of Perennials
By R F Grant

There it lay, the notebook, concealed behind the antique Kit-Cat clock upon the shelf. The clock itself was broken—a drunken brawl he had with a stranger last summer. From the dust-ridden shelf, it grinned at me. Its dilated eyes seemed to follow my hand reaching behind it, enamored. I know what you’re doing, it said with a Cheshire grin. Conniving girls shouldn’t nose around. But it was the only thing he’d hidden. The only thing he’d closeted all these years. I sought it out of curiosity. Not because I’d loved him, but because he’d worn his heart on his sleeve. Objectified, this was his only secret. The only contrast to his candid nature. Allotted deep within its pages were pressed flowers. One for each of them. Harper—a cobalt-eyed southerner he’d met last spring. For her, he chose a Bluebell. For Zoe, a Dahlia. That one dyed her hair black. Treated her skin like a canvas, sleeves tattooed without an inch of natural skin. Orange-hazel eyes and a tongue so sharp you could flint fire off it. And then, me. He chose a Camellia for me, if that tells you anything. They’re symmetrical, like the Vitruvian Man.

I removed the notebook from its shelf. Dropped it on the middle of his desk. Turned the porcelain cat around on the shelf so it wouldn’t leer at me. Humorous, it facing the corner like that. A dunce-capped child. Now who’s the guilty one? I muttered playfully. Dust billowed out from beneath the cover as it opened. I coughed, squinted. Glanced across the title page. Therein rested his name; Alan Kissinger.

The pressed flower on the first page was an amaryllis. Bright crimson and white, speckled with red. A flashing, golden middle. Fresh as the day he’d glued it. The female associated had the name Darya, written in Persian and English. Her photograph could stun a stoic. Eyes of intrigue, outlined in black—a gaze that could freeze fire. Though she wore a hijab, it rested only lightly on a bun circling the back of her head. Raven-black hair, thick like a butter-braid. Painted nails too—unorthodox from what I know of that society. A rebel woman, perhaps. A mosque rested behind her, robin-blue scripture garnishing the walls. The flower and photo were laid out so perfectly, you could tell Alan had loved this woman. A hand-written paragraph below only affirmed my intuition.

August 12th, 2003—we dined beneath a starry sky shattered with fireworks that night. It was Eid Al-Fitr, the end of Ramadan. I believe to this day a peculiar joy in her was unshelled. One otherwise subdued—a freedom of sorts. Though we did not make love, I felt our spirits had treasured one another out of the same ecstasy. Her eyes made love to me within themselves. Darya revealed more in her silence than even the most talkative Westerner. It remains cause for nostalgia. Not her. Not her body. Only her presence. The way she carried herself. My words cannot warrant.”

I scanned onward, turning the page onto another chapter of Alan’s life. This time, a lily-white edelweiss graced the page like a fresh breath of air. I touched its petals, softer than linens. A newborn rabbit’s coat. It lay seamlessly across the page, as if by the hand of a pianist. Sloane, the name associated.

“She withheld a pure soul,” the entry read. “I always see her as enveloped in light, walking through a field just after the sun had risen. Dream-like. A flower you couldn’t pick. Silvery, ash-blonde hair. Bright, hazel eyes. Achromatic skin, a touch of frost. Words whispered from her lips, yet pierced you, though she never spoke ill to anyone.”

Onward I read. A pressed flower came with each name. A journal entry, short or long. I wondered where I could find them. Rather, where I could find something more. A clue towards the lives they led. I read to the very last page. There, at bottom, I found a single line.

It was written by the hand of another, not by Kissinger. The letters were curly and childish, dissimilar to his audacious scribble. They formed an address: 8821 Fleurbaix, Nord-Pas-de-calais, France. A day of contemplation followed. I soon made a decision to discover the place in person.

Several weeks later, I found myself an hour’s drive from Fleurbaix. A short hop on a plane landed me in Paris, a day’s drive north of my destination. I rented a car, drove southward, and came upon a little house just as the day dispersed into dusk. Behind it spread a leviathan garden, this being the most prominent feature. It was Monet-like, and gave the home character. I imagined its caretaker—someone with a horticultural obsession. Someone who’d devoted their life to botany, to floriculture. Soon, I gathered enough courage to approach and knock.

The little child which opened the door I can only describe as ethereal. She had blue eyes tinted with so much white, they appeared as stained glass of an Alice-blue quality. You could see through them, beyond them, as if into the clouds of a faraway place. I immediately felt drawn to her, like a clairsentient’s first time in a cathedral. Shyly, we locked eyes for several seconds before I snapped into reality. I asked where her parents were.

“I don’t live with my parents,” she said.

“Who do you live with then, dear?”

“The man with gray eyes.”

An odd description, though the girl seemed mature for her age.

“Can you bring him to the door?”

“He’s in a wheelchair. He doesn’t like moving around too much,” she said. She opened the screen door and walked past, her buckled shoes pitter-pattering across the flagstone. “—I’ll take you to him. He likes to sit in the garden.”

We sauntered around the left side of the house, facing a tall gate. She released the latch and let me walk through first. This was when I got a good look at the garden. Flourishing, I’d never seen one like it. I almost couldn’t bring myself to walk forward. Though magnificent, it felt natural, not something out of a gardening show. It had a soul.

“What’s wrong?” the girl asked me.

“Nothing,” I replied, proceeding forth.

Around a curvature smothered with flowers, I saw him. He seemed entranced by the forest which bordered the private acre only a quarter-mile away. A bulbous covered his entire complexion, steel wool both in texture and hue. When I walked around to his front, however, I noticed something else. The man was blind. Traces were still left within his irises—eyes of a swirling tempest, muddied and murky. Curdled milk and clay.

The little girl tapped him on his shoulder. He flinched out of his hypnosis.

“Grandpa, there’s a visitor.”

“Oh?”

His brows rose, head swiveling.

“H-hi,” I stammered.

“May I ask your name?”

“Kass. I’ve come from England.”

He smiled—one so gentle, anyone could’ve missed it.

“I figured you’d show up. Someday.”

“You’ve been expecting me?”

“I suppose I have,” he replied. “Have a look around.”

Bright white anemones. Drooping Irises. Flowery marigolds. Star-like orchids and veined petunias. They clustered around us in the thousands, their fragrance of a subtle potpourri, though not overpowering. Plump, little bees wobbled between us, pollen sprinkled from their coats and drifting off into the sunlight. I sneezed. The little girl laughed, palm covering her mouth.

“Did you bring the pocketbook?” the man asked.

“Yes,” I said, not surprised. I removed it and handed it to him.

“Still looks intact,” he said. “What do you think of it?”

“Admittedly, I’m curious.”

He nodded and wheeled away from me. I followed.

“Every flower in Kissinger’s notebook is in this garden,” he continued. “Go ahead, name someone.”

“Sloane.”

“The edelweiss patch is over there, in the corner. White as untouched snow.”

“Darya?”

“The amaryllises are right next to us, actually.”

I lowered my gaze leftward, the crimson and white pouring into my eyes.

“Every flower?”

“Every flower,” he repeated.

“But why?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gathered a deep breath, exhaling the country air. I began to perspire, sunlight glaring across my forehead.

“Before he passed, how did you come to know Alan?”

“I was a foreign exchange student in Sicily,” I said. “Met him there. He was a young man travelling the world, blowing his parent’s trust fund.”

The man chuckled.

“Sounds like Alan. Always had responsibilities to run away from, and too much money to boot.”

“You knew him well?”

"All too well. I was his Godfather—caretaker, butler, all of it. I had a few roles when it came to helping his family. They’d supported me. Before Alan died, he put me in his will, so long as I kept his promise of living here in France and taking care of this property,” he explained. “He admired it here. Could’ve afforded a mansion and he fell in love with a 1600 square-foot cottage.”

“Perhaps it’s the garden.”

“Yes,” he said. “The garden. His bank of essences.”

“Bank of essences?”

"That’s what he called it. A storing place for souls. Like a living locket with many photos.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, squinting into the marshmallow clouds. I raised a flat hand to shade my eyes. At this point, the little girl ran up to me. She handed me a Camellia.

“How did you—”

She laughed again and skipped away. I glanced at the flower--my flower. Perfectly white with a hint of pink. Like a single, rosy drop from a pipette into a bucket of white, mixed together and poured across the petals. The Fibonacci spiral, I thought, observing it. I spun it between my fingers. Paragon in form. Rather unlike me from my point of view. Perhaps it’s how Alan saw me, however. Maybe it’s why I was here.

“A storing place for souls,” the blind man repeated, breaking my train of thought. He sighed. “Alan had issues with nostalgia, you see. With memories.”

“I never knew that about him.”

“He hid it well. He was talented with façades. He grew this garden out of his own pigheadedness. To retain memories of those who’d deeply affected him during his life.”

“A flower for each of them,” I said.

“A flower for each of them. Even for you. He wanted to remember things exactly how they were. We may forget minute details about things, but we always remember their essence.”

The man’s gray eyes rolled around in his head, twitching with thought and spoken word. Gobs of clay in bowls of milk. A beautiful mind behind them, I thought. Children playing with clay, creating forms from the imagination. Gray dirt under fingernails—the man was given the blind road in life, his character built from it.

"Did Alan struggle with dreams?” I continued. “Remembering them, I mean?”

“Yes. Anything dealing with impermanence. A part of Alan never really grew up. Guess it’s true for any of us.”

"What does it all mean, though?”

"Hm?” he said, twisting to face me.

“Now that he’s gone, what does it mean? Doesn’t really have meaning anymore, does it?”

He thought about it, sinking back into his wheelchair.

“I suppose it’s how you look at it. Alan created it. He ordained the chosen living to continue it. To anyone, it could be just a garden. A mechanistic collection of flora without meaning described by science. Passersby would see it all the same. But you and I know that’s simply not true—” he said. Pausing, he winked. Not at me, but at something behind me, beyond me. “—you and I have been let in on the Great Secret, haven’t we? His secret. That withstanding, I suppose you can choose the meaning of it all for yourself.”

At that very moment, the little girl tapped me on my hamstring. I jumped, startled she’d crept behind me. I looked down at her and smiled. I’d been lost in a very deep sort of contemplation towards the man’s descriptions. For just a moment, the world around me had faded. I gazed back at the panorama encircling us; the bright white anemones, drooping irises and flowery marigolds. The star-like orchids and veined petunias. The known edelweiss, amaryllises and camellias. Even the familiar, cliché roses. The lavender hyacinths and petunias. Somehow, they merged into one another. A singularity of color. A mosaic of souls reformed. Feathers plucked from the superlative, amended into the dream-catcher. Cells spindling from the one into the many, only to return again. The myriad blended. Smeared forms upon the canvas of Māyā, only to eventually paint the transcendental. I admired the blind man. Simply, ever so faintly, he nodded at my silence as if he understood.

“Care for tea?” he asked—a tone suggestive of the plainest event in the world. I laughed and replied, “I would.”

I followed him inside, slipping the notebook back into my right pocket. As I helped the man in the wheelchair remove the chamomile from its shelf, I had a last, lingering thought; No amount of riches in the world could buy this notebook from me. Not for the rest of my life.

 A published author of fiction and poetry, R. F. Grant's stories emphasize the strength of the human spirit, explore ethical paradoxes, and are oftentimes about the nature of reality. Mr. Grant has been published in the Cold Mountain Review, Gravel Magazine, Ruminate Magazine, The Mountain Gazette, and was a top 10 fiction finalist in the 2014 TIFERET: A Journal of Spiritual Literature's International Writing Contest. For more information, visit.

​

* * *