Author Archives: Qu Literary Magazine

9 January, 2018

VIGNETTES FROM 28,065 NIGHTS

The First Day of Our Second Year Without You

We visited your grave on Christmas Eve. Elliott helped me find you like we were playing hide and seek. Is Granny over here? No… Is Granny over there? We found you surrounded by poinsettias and candy canes. Elliott picked up a small branch and traced your last name on the headstone, slowly announcing each letter. At age 3, he believes that you’re dead like Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. He tells me you woke up in heaven and you live there now, but you will come back. When I am really, really old, he says daily now, I will go to heaven. Sometimes he adds, Mommy, I don’t want to go to heaven. 

How to Use Vanilla

You told me that when you were young, poor girls used vanilla extract as perfume. I imagine you rising, your scent growing stronger in the sunbaked fields. A young woman picking cotton or blueberries and adding something new—but, of course, a poor girl wouldn’t waste vanilla on the fields. You’d save it for secret dates, for sneaking off to carnivals. One drop for an older boy, two drops if Daddy disapproved of him for driving too fast. You’d touch the small space behind each ear, hoping that your chosen boy might pick up the scent and find you delicious. A few years later, you would bake dessert for your husband—baby balanced on your hip—and recall those warm evenings, the thrill of a field boy’s rough palm. I suddenly understand why, whenever you made simple syrup for waffles, you always replaced the maple with vanilla.  

I Was Afraid It Would Be Empty

Do you remember the notebook I gave you as a Mother’s Day gift five years ago? I asked you to write to me about your life: how you didn’t learn about periods until you thought your sister was bleeding to death, how you snuck out with grandpa for a carnival date. You are one of the few people I can—could—sit with for hours on a couch, TV off, only our stories and us. When we knew you were close to death, I thought about asking if you’d written in the notebook for me, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t want you to feel guilty if you hadn’t found the time or the words to write. When we went through your bedroom after Christmas, I found the notebook in your dresser drawer. I opened it quickly. It was blank, but there was a jagged edge in front. The first page was torn away. 

After Your Strokes, I Ask If You Found Your Clitoris

I read about a woman who was 70 before she realized she had a clit, and I became concerned that you might not know about yours. What if you’d never had an orgasm? With Grandpa gone, I wasn’t sure I should ask, but the mini-strokes had shaken off your shyness. I knew your wedding night story—how you knew nothing about sex until that day, how two kids in the early fifties couldn’t quite make it work, how you went to bed crying instead. I’d heard stories of Grandpa patting you on the bottom when he thought no one was looking. One time he bought you a black leather jumpsuit like Olivia Newton John wore at the end of Grease, but you were too embarrassed to wear it for him. Even in the recovery room after his heart surgery, Grandpa playfully brushed his fingertips across your palm, an old signal that he wanted you. Did these actions add up to your pleasure? “Granny, I’ve been reading this book,” I began. “It talks about how our culture is so focused on men’s bodies and we aren’t supposed to talk about women’s bodies. A lot of women don’t even know about their clitoris! Did you and Grandpa find yours?” “Yeah,” you said quietly, as if someone on your end of the phone line might hear you. “So you did orgasm too?” “Yeah,” you said with a little chuckle, as if it were obvious. 

Your Death Explained in Birds

Death is the great egret at the swamp, picking newly hatched green herons from their cypress nest. I am the pregnant woman on land looking for something to throw. I am the mother heron, too small to fight back, and the runt deep in the nest. Death is the egret dropping fresh young birds into the swamp with barely a ripple. I am the pregnant woman standing horrified and helpless. I am the mother heron shrieking and snapping on the branch below. I am the smallest green heron in the nest. I stick my head out in the stillness after everyone else has gone. 

9 January, 2018

Katie Manning

 is the founding Editor-in-Chief of Whale Road Review and an Associate Professor of Writing at Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego. Her full-length poetry collection, Tasty Other, won the 2016 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award. Find her at www.katiemanningpoet.com.

9 January, 2018

THE SCIENCE OF ___________

“The French, I believe, have agreed on the term ‘aviation’ 

in case they ever succeed in flying.”—Century Magazine, 

October 1891

Let’s agree on a word for _______ in case

we ever succeed in ________ing. To the girls

who lie down in fields, their bicycles

on their sides, too, like horses

asleep in the sun, know this: even though

________ is not a science yet, it will be.

When you button your shirt in the morning,

fingers fumbling to fasten the circles,

to thread them through, know that we invented

the word for this science from bud, as if

a row of tender orchids will soon bloom

down your chest, a new branch of botany.

Science of radio, science of sleep,

science of kindness, science of wheel.

One day we will study ________ like we study

flight or photography. Let’s agree

on this: everything exists on a spectrum,

word derived from specter, science of startle,

science of the remarkable. Two girls

in a field test the science of buttons.

Their shirts will soon break into yellow blooms. 

9 January, 2018

Julia Koets

Julia Koets’ poetry collection, Hold Like Owls, won the 2011 South Carolina Poetry Book Prize and was published by the University of South Carolina Press. Her poetry and nonfiction essays have been published in literary journals including Indiana Review, The Los Angeles Review, Carolina Quarterly, and Portland Review. She has an MFA in poetry from the University of South Carolina and a PhD in literature and creative writing from the University of Cincinnati.

9 January, 2018

A KIND OF MARRIAGE

E.M. Forster, the great British novelist and champion of individual liberty and responsibility lived a homosexual life concealed from the public eye. In 1931, at the age of 52, Forster takes as his lover, a young London policeman Bob Buckingham who in turn begins a passionate relationship with a young nurse, May Hockey. Forster, along with his own hidden homosexuality, is forced to face the bisexual preferences of his new lover. How Forster, Bob and May come to terms with their own affections and the sexual nature of their relationship is the fertile dramatic material of A KIND OF MARRIAGE.

EXTRACT OF THE PLAY

Characters in this extract:

MORGAN, 52, professionally known as E.M. Forster, a famous novelist.

BOB, 29, a London policeman.

MAY, 20s, a nurse at Fulham Maternity Hospital, London.

EDNA, 20s, May’s friend and fellow nurse at Fulham Maternity Hospital.

BARMAN at the Fulham Palace Road Pub.

DORA CARRINGTON, late 30s, professionally known as “Carrington,” a painter and decorative artist who lives in a ménage à trois with her husband and the author Lytton Strachey.

***

Scene 4

(From Act One: London. Summer 1931. Morgan’s bedsit flat in Brunswick Square. Mid-day. A small table is set for a simple meal for two. A neatly made double-bed to one side. BOB in his undershirt, trousers and braces, serving up a freshly made omelette on to two plates as MORGAN enters. A gramophone record is playing a Mozart Piano Sonata.)

BOB

I got the afternoon off. Come sit down and tuck in. It’s an onion omelette and I grated some cheese in it. (The gramophone Mozart record finishes playing.) You can open the tinned salmon. (HE hands MORGAN the tin of salmon and a tin opener. MORGAN struggles with the opener, dropping the tin, then the opener.)

MORGAN

Infernal gadgets. It takes a Hercules to operate this thing.

BOB

Give it to me, luv. You have no patience, Morgan. Change the record on the gramophone, will you? (BOB easily opens the tin, serving out the salmon.) Put on some of that Beethoven. The one that goes, “DEE-DEE-DEE–DUM!”

(MORGAN goes to the gramophone, lifting the needle arm off the record.)

MORGAN

Your sergeant Harry Daley was at Joe Ackerley’s this morning.

BOB

Was he then? Harry’s all right. A bit of a show-off, but all right. Tuck in, luv.

(MORGAN takes his place at table with BOB. THEY eat.) 

MORGAN

He was talking rubbish about you. I worry about what he might be saying at the station house.

BOB

I wouldn’t mind much about Harry. He’s a sort of licensed lunatic. That, at least, is the way I take him. Now eat your omelette. I’ve been listening to that Mozart fellow on the gramophone. He uses a lot of notes, doesn’t he?

MORGAN

A lot of notes. Yes. Quite a few.

BOB

Just think of all those notes going round in his head. I guess that’s why he had to write them down.

MORGAN

Writing them down helps.

BOB

To get them out of his head. Otherwise he’d have to be carryin’ them around in his brain all the time. Like I’m trying to memorise these manual regulations for the police sergeant’s examination. I tell you!

MORGAN

You are a dear, Bob. Sometimes I think I enjoy showing you off. Like some sort of trophy. Is that shameful of me?

BOB

You’ve won me, Morgan. Completely. “Notice to All: Constable Buckingham is owned by E.M. Forster. Please do not interfere!”

MORGAN

Please don’t talk about “owning.” It makes me nervous. 

BOB

It’s all right. We don’t have to talk about it.

MORGAN

You are so extraordinarily understanding.

BOB

Not as understanding as May. But you’ll find that out soon for yourself. She’s keen to meet you.

MORGAN

An occasion, the anticipation of which, I do not relish.

BOB

You mean you don’t want to. You could say it right out. You don’t have to say it with the words twisted all ‘round.

MORGAN

I didn’t say I didn’t want to. What I said was that I wasn’t looking forward to it. I have certain trepidations. Fears. About our meeting.

BOB

Fears? Then you should say so, straight out.

MORGAN

In summary, my dear Bob, at present, she is, as you say, “keen” to meet me, but one knows all too well how it will end.

BOB

You might be surprised. You’ll like May. She’s no-nonsense. Don’t go in for make-up and silly clothes. And a nice sense of humour.

MORGAN

Always good for a giggle, is she? 

BOB

She doesn’t hold with all that religion and sentimental woman stuff. A regular chum of a girl, who’s rather nice-looking, too.

MORGAN

I’m not the one to judge about that.

BOB

You will be. You have a bit of egg in your moustache. (HE dabs it away with his napkin.)

MORGAN

Don’t fuss me.

BOB

You want taking care of and I intend to do an awfully good job of it.

MORGAN

As you do. (Pause.) Does she know about us?

BOB

That’s our business. It has nothing to do with May. (HE finishes his meal, gets up, taking his plate to the side.) This place needs a good sweep. (HE takes up a broom from the corner.) Feet up, please.

(MORGAN lifts his feet. BOB sweeps under them.)

MORGAN

Bob, you should know that I don’t intend to give up any of my rights, either to your affections or your time to this woman.

BOB

MAY. Her name is May, and speaking of rights, I’ve something else here. (From his trouser pocket, he takes out a small ring box, opening it). I picked it up in a little pawnshop just off Hammersmith Grove. It’s real gold.

MORGAN

I’m sure May will like it.

BOB

It’s for you! A gentleman’s little ring. Give me your hand. The left one, please. (HE slips the ring on MORGAN’S little finger.) Let this be our pledge, Morgan. We are an “us” now. (HE crooks his own little finger around MORGAN’S ringed finger, holding tight.) Say it. US.

MORGAN

Us.

BOB

We’re together now, nothing else matters. It’s a chance in a million, we’ve found each other, Morgan. I’d do anything for you, even die for you if I had to.

MORGAN

Please don’t say such things. (HE starts to pull his hand away, BOB holds fast.)

BOB

From this moment. In true faithfulness, we are! I want you to wear this ring and never take it off.

(MORGAN twists the little ring uncomfortably on his little finger.)

MORGAN

It will take some getting used to.

BOB

Give us a kiss. (HE takes MORGAN’S face gently in his hands, and kisses him on the lips.) No backing out now, luv. That seals it.

(BOB puts the broom away and undoes his braces, undoing his trousers.) 

BOB (Cont’d)

Now put on that Beethoven and come to bed. It’s time I had my German lesson, Herr Professor. (HE steps out of his trousers and his underpants, getting into bed naked except for his undershirt.) “DEE-DEE-DEE– DUM! DEE-DEE-DEE–DUM!”

(MORGAN goes to the gramophone, taking a record out of sleeve, putting on Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.)

MORGAN

I do believe Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man. As for your May, I’m sure she shall have all she wants, but I can still deny her my company.

BOB

Sprechen Sie Deutsch, please!

(MORGAN moves to the bed, standing at the side. BOB loosens MORGAN’S tie and collar, unbuttoning his shirt, undoing the belt of his trousers.)

MORGAN

“What is the fare to Berlin?” Was kostet die Fahrt nach Berlin?

BOB

(helping MORGAN undress, repeating)

Was kostet die Fahrt nach Berlin?

MORGAN

“I’d like a room with a double bed.” Ich möchte ein Zimmer mit Doppelbett.

BOB

Ich möchte ein Zimmer mit Doppelbett!

MORGAN

Sehr gut, mein Schüler!

(BOB pulls back the sheet, welcoming MORGAN into bed.)

BOB

Kommen sie hier, Herr Professor.

(MORGAN, still in his undershirt, steps out of his trousers, getting into bed. BOB draws MORGAN to him, kissing him tenderly, as the lights fade.

The Beethoven on the gramophone crossfades to the tinny sound of–

A popular dance band tune plays, Jack Hylton & his Orchestra, “Life Begins At Oxford Circus.”)

Scene 5

(A corner table in a working class-pub in Fulham Palace Road near May’s Fulham Maternity Hospital. Late afternoon. Dirty glass windows and faded lace curtains hung at the windows. MAY sits with her friend EDNA, 20s. Both are dressed in their nursing uniforms.

To one side, a BARMAN stands behind a bar, polishing glasses.)

EDNA

I brought my autograph book. Do you think he’ll mind?

MAY

I’m sure he’s used to it. 

EDNA

I got John Gielgud at the Old Vic last month. Oh, he was lovely! And Gertie Lawrence signed it at the Adelphi stage door for me. I don’t have any famous authors yet.

BARMAN

Excuse me, Ladies? Can I get your anything?

MAY

No thank you. We’re waiting.

EDNA

For the gentlemen.

BARMAN

Ah. The gentlemen. Right. (BARMAN turns brusquely away and exits.)

MAY

Mr. Forster is very accommodating. So I understand.

EDNA

Aren’t you nervous? I mean meeting him for the first time?

MAY

I’m not keen. But it’s important to Robert. That I meet him.

EDNA

It’s so lovely that he’s Robert’s friend. I guess a policeman meets all sorts of famous people in his line of work. Not like us. Nobody famous comes to have their babies at Fulham Maternity.

MAY

Maybe they decided not to come.

EDNA

I’m sure they’ll be here. Your Robert is the reliable sort. Meeting you at the hospital after your shift to walk you home. I wish I could get my Freddie to do that.

(BOB in his constable uniform, his helmet under his arm, enters with MORGAN in a rumpled, ill-fitting suit and an old tweed cap.)

BOB

Here they are. Hullo, Girls!

MORGAN

(Removing his cap, a slight awkward inclination to the ladies)

Good afternoon, Ladies.

(EDNA gets quickly to her feet, tugging at MAY)

EDNA

May! Up!

BOB

May and Edna, this is Mr. Forster. Morgan, this is my friend May and her friend–

EDNA

Edna. EDNA PICKLES. I know it’s a terrible name. But that’s who I am.

MORGAN

I think it is a charming name, Miss Pickles.

MAY

(Offering her hand directly to MORGAN)

Hullo, I’m May Hockey.

(MORGAN takes her hand, awkwardly.)

MORGAN

Yes. May.

EDNA

HOCKEY. And don’t ask her if she plays, ‘cause she don’t!

MORGAN

No.

MAY

I’m a nurse at the Fulham Maternity Hospital around the corner. I’m sure Robert has told you.

MORGAN

Yes. Bob has.

EDNA

We both are. Mothers and babies are our business! (A nervous laugh.) Sorry.

MAY

We’ve only a short time before our shift starts.

BOB

Come sit down, Morgan. What are you drinking, Girls?

MAY

Only ginger beer for me, Robert. We’re on duty at four.

EDNA

Ginger beer for me as well, I suppose. Have they got any pork scratchings? A couple of packets would be lovely.

MAY

For goodness sakes, Edna, but you just had your lunch.

EDNA

But I like pork scratchings.

BOB

You can have whatever you want. Morgan?

MORGAN

Please. Everyone. Have whatever you like.

EDNA

You’re certainly the kind of gentleman I like to spend time with, Mr. Forster! There, I’ve said it! I always say, “Honesty is the best policy.”

MORGAN

I favour reciprocal dishonesty, myself.

EDNA

Oh, my. Whatever can that mean?

MAY

A literary turn of phrase.

BOB

I’ll have a ginger beer, too. Morgan?

MORGAN

Yes, a ginger beer is fine, Bob.

BOB

All right. Ginger beers all around. 

(HE steps away to the bar to order the drinks from the BARMAN.

EDNA calls after BOB.)

EDNA

And a packet of pork scratchings!

(Pause. EDNA, MORGAN, and MAY sit silently at the table, while BOB gets the drinks.)

MAY

I read your novel.

MORGAN

Have you? Which one was that?

MAY

A Passage to India.

MORGAN

I hope you enjoyed it.

MAY

Adela should have told the truth. It would have saved a lot of trouble.

MORGAN

But trouble is the whole point of fiction.

MAY

But not in life.

EDNA

I can’t believe this is happening. Sittin’ right here with a famous author. Wait until I tell Freddie. Oh, before I forget, Mr. Forster, could you sign my book? I’ve never had an author before.

MORGAN

Certainly. Do you have a pen?

EDNA

Just a pencil.

MAY

Here, use mine. (Taking a pen from her uniform pocket, handing it to MORGAN.)

MORGAN

Thank you, Nurse Hockey. 

MAY

May. Just May.

MORGAN

Of course. May. How shall I inscribe it, Miss Pickles?

EDNA

Write, “To Edna, who brings new life into the world.”

MORGAN

Yes. New life. I rather like that. (HE begins to write.) “To Edna, who brings new life—” (completing the inscription in silence)

BOB

Here we are, Everybody. (Returning with four bottles of ginger beer, glasses, and the packet of pork scratchings, setting them on the table.) You’d think this was the Café Royal, the way the barman put his nose up.

EDNA

Have you been to the Café Royal? Golly.

MORGAN

Everyone enjoys Bob’s stories about his work.

MAY

Crime and passion amongst the working classes, is it?

MORGAN

In a way, yes. A window to a very different world.

EDNA

Well, somebody needs to give a good wash to these windows. Not much crime and passion to be seen through this one! I guess I’ve gone a bit literary on you, Mr. Forster. It must be catching!

MORGAN

It’s a very good turn of phrase, Miss Pickles. What’s this? (HE picks up a beer mat, reading it.) “ONLY WORTHINGTON BEST BITTER SERVED HERE.”

MAY

What a pity. When you haven’t got the ‘bob and ask for the BETTER instead.

(MORGAN bursts out in a spontaneous guffaw of laughter.)

MORGAN

HA! YES! Haven’t got the ‘bob, the BETTER BITTER instead! Indeed!

(BOB and EDNA join in the laughter.)

BOB

The BETTER BITTER!

EDNA

Indeed! I’ll have a pint of the BETTER, Mate!

MAY

But it is the “BEST BITTER SERVED,” after all. Good value there. (SHE replaces the beer mat on the table, with a smile to MORGAN, who returns her smile, uncertainly.)

BOB

It’s nice to see everyone getting along.

(A moment’s awkward pause.)

MAY

Robert tells me you’ve asked him on a motoring tour for his holiday week?

MORGAN

Yes. I thought he might enjoy seeing the West Country. 

EDNA

Oh, the West Country! That’ll be lovely.

BOB

I’ve never seen the West Country. Never seen much of the any country, for that matter. When I was a kid, the Council used to herd us all on to a bus and take us up to Hampstead Heath. Potted meat sandwiches. But that was about as much of the country I ever saw.

MORGAN

I’ve bought a car. I need a driver. I don’t drive myself.

MAY

That must be difficult. Having a car. When you don’t drive.

(A pause.)

MORGAN

Difficult. Yes. It’s second-hand. The car.

BOB

An old Essex, a real beauty.

MORGAN

I don’t really know about motors. I’m leaving all that to Robert.

EDNA

A nice motoring holiday. It’s a shame May can’t get away to go with you.

MORGAN

Yes. (Pause.) It is.

MAY

I’m afraid we have to cut this short.

EDNA

Oh, May, don’t be such a wet blanket. You’re not Matron yet. Matron’s always putting the damper on a bit of fun.

MAY

We need to check with Matron about the fresh surgical supplies before the shift starts. And you, Robert, need to get back to the station. It’s nearly Four.

BOB

It’s all right, May. Morgan cleared it with my Sergeant.

MORGAN

I cleared it.

EDNA

We’ve got time, May, I already checked the supply cupboard—(a kick under the table, a look from MAY) Oh, right, we need to check those supplies. (To BOB.) The drinks were lovely, Robert. It’s a shame we didn’t touch the scratchings. No need to waste. (SHE puts the packet of scratchings into her handbag.) I’ll save them for my tea.

MORGAN

Please do, Miss Pickles. No need to waste.

EDNA

It’s been such a pleasure, Mr. Forster.

MORGAN

It’s been mutual, Miss Pickles.

EDNA

I’ve got to get back to the babies. I love my job. I really do. I love babies.

MORGAN

You must, Miss Pickles. Babies are the meaning of everything.

EDNA

Yes, yes, they are, aren’t they? Do you have children, Mr. Forster?

MORGAN

No. I’m not married.

EDNA

Well, if I may say so, you’d be quite a catch.

MAY

Edna, you go on ahead. I need a word with Robert.

EDNA

Yes, Matron! (A little salute.)

MORGAN

I’ll be off then. Drinks are my treat.

EDNA

It’s oh, so good of you, Mr. Forster!

MAY

Yes, so very. But we’d rather pay. (Taking up her handbag.)

BOB

May, put that away! This is Morgan’s treat!

MORGAN

I always say money’s a thing to use, if you’ve got it.

EDNA

Oh, Mr Forster, do walk me back! We can talk about babies.

MORGAN

Yes, babies. Good afternoon, Miss Hockey. It’s been most pleasant meeting Robert’s friends.

MAY

And most pleasant meeting you, Mr. Forster.

BOB

(To MORGAN.)

I’ll be just a moment with May, if that’s all right.

MORGAN

Of course. I’ll see Nurse Pickles to the hospital. BARMAN?

(EDNA links her arm in MORGAN’S as THEY exit.)

EDNA

You really ought to have babies of your own, Mr. Forster. (Exiting.)

BOB

He likes to pay. He really does.

MAY

I can see that.

BOB

I thought that went well. Except for you wanting to pay.

MAY

We mustn’t take advantage, Robert.

BOB

No. We mustn’t. (Pause.) So what do you think?

MAY

He has beautiful hands. It’s always the first thing I notice. But more importantly, I think your Mr. Forster cares very much for you.

BOB

He’s a good person, May. I told you. He knows so much and he’s been everywhere. He wants me to better myself, May.

MAY

I’m sure he does. (Pause.) Do you think there’s room for me?

BOB

Room for you? What do you mean?

MAY

In your friendship.

BOB

I love you, May. You know that.

MAY

And I love you, Robert. You are such a good, good man. Maybe that’s what Mr. Forster sees in you. Just be careful, Robert.

BOB

Careful? Careful of what? Morgan sees the good in everyone.

MAY

Does he? Then I hope he sees the good in me.

BOB

He will, luv. Just give him time.

MAY

“Time’s winged chariot,” Robert.

(BOB leans in and kisses her cheek.)

BOB

You are a wonder, May Hockey. It’s a miracle I found you.

MAY

Little miracles seem to be happening all around. Here we are, two quite ordinary people and we can say the famous E.M. Forster is our friend.

BOB

He is, May. Morgan is the best of people.

(MAY leans in, kissing him.)

BOB (Cont’d)

What was that for?

MAY

Because you are a sweet, loving, believing person.

BOB

And you’re not?

MAY

No, I don’t think I am. Not in the normal way. I think what I believe in most is people–and what they have between them. That seems to be a more reliable belief than a belief in God.

BOB

That’s funny. That’s what Morgan says.

MAY

Does he?

BOB

Maybe you’re more alike than you think.

MAY

Maybe. We shall see.

BOB

Good ol’ May! Do you want to come ‘round the flat after your shift? Morgan’s going back to Surrey to see his Mum.

MAY

I’m on night duty. I’d better be getting back with Edna.

BOB

But you do like him, don’t you, May? It’s important to me. I want you to like him.

MAY

Yes, I like him, Robert. More than I thought I would. More than I wanted to, actually. (SHE gets up to leave.)

BOB

Thursday, then?

MAY

Thursday then. 

(SHE kisses him again and exits.

BOB drinks from his ginger beer, picks up the beer mat, reading aloud.)

BOB

“—Best Bitter, Better Bitter.” HA! (Raising a hand, signaling the BARMAN.) Make it a large whiskey, mate! (The lights fade.)

Scene 6

(Dora Carrington’s painting studio Ham Spray House, Wiltshire. A late summer afternoon. CARRINGTON, late 30s, in paint-dappled man’s shirt, trousers, boyish haircut, stands at a paint easel, painting a portrait of MORGAN. MORGAN sits posed awkwardly in a chair opposite.)

CARRINGTON

You are looking quite the old grump this afternoon. Confess, Morgan. What’s troubling you? 

MORGAN

People are becoming increasingly irritating and exhausting, Carrington. I am losing patience with human beings and their personal relations.

CARRINGTON

A serious handicap for a novelist. Perhaps you should consider a change of profession. You might take up a professorship somewhere. Professors, in my experience, have little interest in human beings or personal relations.

MORGAN

I am not joking.

CARRINGTON

Neither am I. Do sit still, Morgan, and stop fidgeting. And kindly sit up, you look like a sack of potatoes.

MORGAN

I hate posing. Can’t you take a photograph and work from that?

CARRINGTON

NO. I want to capture the “LIFE” in you, Morgan! And stop clutching your left hand like that. You look like a nervous schoolgirl called before the Headmistress.

MORGAN

Please don’t boss me. (HE releases his hand.) Women and their rights have got quite out of hand, Carrington.

CARRINGTON

Have we? How inconvenient.

MORGAN

If women ever wanted to be by themselves all would be well. But I don’t believe they ever want to be. Their instinct is never to let men be by themselves.

CARRINGTON

AH! The Destruction of Club Life! We women will not rest until it is complete. Storm the Athenaeum! Deal me in at Boodles! Whiskey and cigars all around! We want to get in everywhere, Morgan, and we will.

MORGAN

You actually believe that.

CARRINGTON

My dear Morgan, a man can run away from women, turn them out, or give in to them. No fourth course exists. (Pause.) So what’s she like? The girlfriend? Pretty?

MORGAN

No, rather ordinary. Doesn’t wear make-up or lipstick. Very direct in her manner.

CARRINGTON

Ah. Mannish, you mean?

MORGAN

Not at all. A round face. But a softness to it. She looks directly at one. But she does have a rather irritating voice.

CARRINGTON

How so?

MORGAN

It’s not the voice. It’s the manner. Rather too authoritative.

CARRINGTON

Well, you said she was nurse. She’s used to giving orders.

MORGAN

It’s very off-putting. Especially in regards to Bob.

CARRINGTON

Unnerving that, I suppose. Considering the circumstances. Does she know that Policeman Bob is sleeping with you?

MORGAN

No, I don’t think so. Bob would have told me. No, our meeting was all very cordial and civilized, if rather chilly.

CARRINGTON

Well, it is a beginning. It all might sort itself out quite tidily. You, your sweetie, and his nurse friend.

MORGAN

Sort itself out? If you’re implying a ménage à trois arrangement, Carrington, I will have none of your triangular relationship business.

CARRINGTON

It’s quite practical and satisfying, actually. It solves a lot of problems. Ralph loves me, I love Lytton, and Lytton loves Ralph. I want to have sex with Lytton, which doesn’t suit him, but he has sex with Ralph and Ralph has sex with me. So it all balances out, doesn’t it? One must take people as they are, Morgan, and work from there. The only requirement is a fairly large and sturdy bed.

MORGAN

Please, Carrington, spare me the details.

CARRINGTON

Don’t shut your mind to it, Morgan. You might find a way to sort it all out. Triangularly speaking.

MORGAN

I could never be with a woman in that way.

CARRINGTON

Oh, rubbish! With your Policeman Bob to urge you on!

(BOB enters in rolled shirtsleeves, grease-stained, wiping his hands on a greased and oil-stained cloth.)

BOB

The ol’ girl should be humming nicely now. I cleaned up the carburettor and the spark plugs and adjusted the fan belt.

CARRINGTON

Whatever those are. Morgan, why don’t you buy yourself a new car and make Bob your chauffeur, with a smart cap and spiffy uniform, and not have all this motor engine annoyance? You can afford it.

BOB

Oh, no, Ma’am. It’s part of the fun, fixing up and taking care of the old Essex. A new car wouldn’t be nearly as much.

CARRINGTON

Spoken like a born mechanic, Constable.

BOB

I’m sure it’s no problem but, your husband Mr. Carrington and the bearded gentleman are sunbathing naked in the front garden.

CARRINGTON

There is no Mr. Carrington, Bob. You mean, Ralph and Mr. Strachey. And not to worry–the hedgerow is quite high. We will not frighten any bicycling spinsters or holiday motorists.

BOB

Mr. Strachey is lying in your husband’s arms. Awfully private business to be doing in public, don’t you think?

CARRINGTON

Was Mr. Strachey lying beard up or beard down?

BOB

Beard down I think.

CARRINGTON

Then he will have a very burnt bottom tonight. Morgan, your turn.

MORGAN

It’s all right, Bob. Mr. Strachey is a very close friend.

BOB

Oh. Then it’s all right then. Good mates, are they?

CARRINGTON

We are all good mates here at Ham Spray House.

BOB

Miss Carrington, I was wondering–

MORGAN

Just “Carrington,” Bob. She prefers it.

BOB

Sorry. Carrington, you wouldn’t have an extra can of petrol you could spare? I hate for us to be caught short crossing the Downs.

CARRINGTON

I believe there are several cans in the shed. You’re welcome to them.

BOB

Thank you, Ma’am. How’s the picture coming? May I see?

CARRINGTON

Only if you understand it’s not finished.

BOB

All right. (HE looks at the painting.) Oh, very good. I think you’ve got him to the life. One thing, tho’.

CARRINGTON

ONE thing?

BOB

The little gold ring on his left little finger. You missed that. It would be nice to get that in.

CARRINGTON

Oh. Right. Didn’t catch that. Morgan, you were clutching that hand, but now I see it quite clearly. (SHE dabs at the canvas.)

BOB

You’ve got it now, Miss Carrington. I mean–Carrington.

CARRINGTON

Thank you, Buckingham!

BOB

Buckingham? Oh, right! Ha!

MORGAN

When can I see it, Carrington?

CARRINGTON

Not until it’s finished. I don’t ask to read your stories before you’ve finished them, do I?

BOB

Don’t worry, Morgan’s not writing anything now.

MORGAN

No. Not now.

BOB

Let me get the petrol in the tank and clean up a bit, and we’re ready to go, Morgan. Are you ready?

MORGAN

If the sitting is over. 

CARRINGTON

Yes, the muse has moved on. To the pottery wheel! You have a good eye, Policeman Bob.

BOB

Thank you, Ma’am. Give me ten minutes to clean up, Morgan, and I’ll be out in the car. It’s been good meeting you, Carrington–and thanks for the beer. Ten minutes, Morgan. Let me change this shirt. (HE removes his shirt, exiting.)

MORGAN

We are so completely unalike–Bob and I.

CARRINGTON

Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, don’t you see? That you found each other. Policeman Bob is the man for you, Morgan.

MORGAN

You’re not just saying that?

CARRINGTON

Your Policeman is charming and extremely attractive to look at, if I may say so–and quite easy to get on with.

MORGAN

I’m glad you like him. I am so very proud of the lad.

CARRINGTON

As well you should be. He’s lovely and he loves you, Morgan. Anyone can see that. If he wasn’t so gone on you, I might try to steal him.

MORGAN

Is it that obvious?

CARRINGTON

You are a great baby sometimes.

MORGAN

I know it’s not the customary thing. For a young man and a man of my years.

CARRINGTON

I suppose you must find the love of Policeman Bob a bit overwhelming.

MORGAN

It is unsettling. Especially the situation. The woman and all. Love can get so awfully complicated.

CARRINGTON

Welcome to the human race, Morgan. (SHE kisses MORGAN tenderly on the cheek.) Don’t worry, these things have a way of sorting themselves out.

MORGAN

Let me know when the portrait is finished. Or if you want another sitting.

CARRINGTON

(Looking at her canvas.)

No. I think I’ve got you now. As your Bob says, “to the life.”

MORGAN

All right then. Say good-bye to Ralph and Strachey for me. I shan’t disturb their sunbathing. (As MORGAN is about to exit.)

CARRINGTON

If I might say, you ought to screw your courage to the sticking place and live your life as you really want to. Isn’t that what you advocate for your characters in your novels? The courage to live honestly as one wishes?

MORGAN

An easy position to support in fiction, but real life can be an entirely different matter.

CARRINGTON

But not impossible, I dare say, if I am any example. Give it a go, Guv’ner.

MORGAN

I haven’t your moral courage, Carrington, when it comes to these sexual matters. Your public daring, dear girl, has always been a wonder to me.

CARRINGTON

Pushing the boundaries, am I?

MORGAN

Fearlessly, my dear.

CARRINGTON

I’ll take that as a compliment. Talking of the real world, Forster, it is a curious thing, isn’t it?

MORGAN

What is?

CARRINGTON

That more female writers don’t have affairs with female policewomen.

MORGAN

Oh, but they do, Carrington, only not in your section of Wiltshire. You should talk to the Mitford Sisters. (HE exits as CARRINGTON picks up her easel.)

CARRINGTON

Motion carried. Time to throw a few pots. 

(Exits.

MORGAN slips a black mourning band on his coat sleeve as HE crosses to.) 

Scene 7

(Evening, August 1932. A year later. A first-class carriage compartment of the Great Western Main Line, Hungerford to Paddington Station train. MORGAN takes a seat opposite BOB. Sound of a train in transit. THEY sit facing one another, each with a black mourning band on his coat sleeve. The clicking sound of the train wheels on track. PAUSE. Then.)

MORGAN

What time is it?

BOB 

(Checking his wristwatch.)

Eight-Forty-Eight. Do you want me to stay over at the flat tonight?

MORGAN

No. No, not tonight. I’d rather be alone. It’s been a horrible year, Bob. Today has brought it all back. What possible horror could be coming next?

BOB

I always say guns should not be in the hands of the Public. Especially women.

MORGAN

I can’t believe they are both gone. I thought Carrington came through Strachey’s death so well, joking about us all going out on a jolly pheasant shoot together.

BOB

I remember him saying, “If this is dying, I don’t think much of it.” He made me laugh.

MORGAN

He was so cheerful and clear-minded up to the very end. Stomach cancer be damned.

BOB

She must have loved Mr. Strachey very much. I suppose her husband wasn’t enough.

MORGAN

What?

BOB

The gentleman she was married to. Ralph.

MORGAN

No, Ralph wasn’t enough. In the usual way.

BOB

She loved them both, I think. But in very different ways.

MORGAN

Yes. Very different ways.

BOB

I can see that.

MORGAN

The main difference being that she could not go on living without Strachey.

BOB

May says it can happen like that. In hospital. When one person in the marriage dies, the other won’t go on living without them, and dies soon after. Of course, Miss Carrington wasn’t married to Mr. Strachey. She had Ralph. But you can never be sure with the way love works, can you?

MORGAN

(Vaguely, looking out the darkened train window)

No, never sure.

(Pause.)

BOB

It was a funny sort of memorial. Us scattering her ashes under the laurel bush in her garden and that dance band record playin’ on the gramophone, “TOOT-TOOT-TOOTSIE, GOOD-BYE.” She had a sense of humour, Miss Carrington did.

MORGAN

A rare and gifted artist, Bob. The best of all possible women friends. We shall not see her like again. (HE starts to break down, BOB comforts him.)

BOB

Easy now, luv. Easy.

MORGAN

I don’t have the courage to live as bravely as she would have me do. I feel such shame, Bob. I am not the man Carrington believed me to be. I have failed her and now I don’t know how I shall survive her death. I really don’t.

BOB

(Taking MORGAN’S hand.)

There’s love, Morgan. And life. And beautiful babies coming into the world. Like you said, when you met Edna and May, remember last summer? “Babies are the meaning of everything.”

MORGAN

Did I? Well, it must have been in the context of the conversation.

BOB

There’s new life coming, Morgan. May is pregnant.

MORGAN

Pregnant? She’s a nurse, for Godsakes! Doesn’t she know about birth control?

BOB

She’s going to have my baby. I’m going to marry her, Morgan.

MORGAN

You don’t have to marry her. She can go away somewhere and have it quietly. How much money does she want? We’ll give her all the money she wants.

BOB

You talk too much about money. May doesn’t want anything. She doesn’t even want to marry me.

MORGAN

Thank God for that. At least she shows some sense.

BOB

But I want to. I want to marry May and have our baby. I want a family of my own, Morgan. I never had a family. Never had a father to speak of. I want to be a good husband and father and have a family life.

MORGAN

But that’s no reason to throw your life away on this woman.

BOB

I want to be with her, Morgan. May’s a good woman. I want to marry her and make a home for our baby.

MORGAN

I will not discuss this. I have tolerated the presence of this woman in our lives for the past year. But this is the end of it. This is a closed topic. I need a drink. I’m going to the buffet car.

BOB

Sit down, Morgan.

MORGAN

What?

BOB

I love her and I love the child that’s growing inside of her.

MORGAN

And where do I fit into this cozy family picture?

BOB

I want you to love them as I do.

MORGAN

This is madness.

BOB

No, this is love, Morgan. What you taught me. You know I will never love anyone like I love you. Nothing can change that.

MORGAN

And May and her wee bairn?

BOB

They are a part of me now. Can’t you love them with me?

MORGAN

I think what you are asking is outrageous and unnatural.

BOB

I’m sorry you feel that way. It’s already set. We’ve booked a date at the registry office.

MORGAN

At least it’s not a church wedding. That would be a travesty.

BOB

May doesn’t hold with that religion stuff. It’s what she wants–and we want you to witness it. Give me your hand. 

MORGAN

What for?

(BOB takes MORGAN’S hand and wraps his own left little finger around MORGAN’S ringed left little finger.)

BOB

We are bound for life, Morgan.

MORGAN

But I certainly hope NOT for the wedding night.

(BOB bursts out laughing, and MORGAN in spite of himself, laughs.)

BOB

Will you try? Say you’ll try.

(MORGAN takes BOB’S hand in his kissing it, pressing it to his cheek.)

MORGAN

Oh, my boy, my precious boy. Yes, I’ll try. I will try.

(BOB put his hand gently to MORGAN’S head, smoothing his hair.)

BOB

Shhh, shhh, luv. My Morgan. 

(HE kisses the top of MORGAN’S head.

The lights fade.

A recording of Lohengrin’s Wedding March is heard as–)

END OF EXTRACT. 

9 January, 2018

Charles Leipart

Charles Leipart’s work has appeared in the Bayou Magazine, the Jabberwock Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Panolpy Literary Zine, and the Eastern Iowa Review. He also writes for the theatre; Cream Cakes in Munich, 1st Prize Award 2016 Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival. Charles is a graduate of Northwestern University, a former fellow of the Edward Albee Foundation, and a member of the Dramatists Guild. He lives and writes in New York City. www.charlesleipart.com

9 January, 2018

PUT ME TO SLEEP

Chef slams the skillet down and barks something

about being low on eggs. Four tickets in my apron

means he’ll need another carton. Not that I’ll fetch

it for him. I stay on my side of the kitchen.

One time, a nurse said Saddam Hussein saved

bread crusts for the birds. In jail, without

the distracting temptation of dictatorship,

he watered dusty plants, another’s task.

I dated an ex-con. On the anniversary

of his mother’s death, I saw him walking

out of town to her grave. She was buried one

state over. Months later, he raped me.

The Dalai Lama said, Aggression is an intimate

part of ourselves. Once, he said, It’s well-known

that good feelings only cause boredom,

and gently put you to sleep.

Like people don’t know the price of fruit, chef says,

when I hand him a ticket for a yogurt parfait. 

I scoop raspberries out of the plastic tub. 

Jesus Christ, he says, and slaps my hand away.

You have to take the ones from the top first,

or the others below bruise beneath their weight.

His calloused fingers cradle each berry—

his touch gentle as if they’re newborns asleep.

9 January, 2018

Lauren Davis

is a poet living on the Olympic Peninsula in a Victorian seaport community. She holds an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars, and her work can be found in publications such as Prairie Schooner, Spillway, and Split Lip Press. She has received a residency at Hypatia-in-the-Woods. She also teaches at The Writers’ Workshoppe in Port Townsend, WA, and works as an editor at The Tishman Review.

9 January, 2018

THE ADULTS

On Saturday morning, I sit in bed and scroll through my phone and try to remember when, exactly, weekends became something to be endured. I text Madeline to ask if she and her girlfriend, Lauren, are going to Alice’s birthday party. Madeline is the one friend I have who does not require a week’s notice to make plans. The rest are married, with an assortment of children. 

I toss the phone on the bed and consider my options. I could trim my beard. I could scramble eggs. I could research memory foam pillows to replace the sad sack pillow I currently own. Instead, I pick up my phone and go to my ex-wife’s Facebook page. My ex-wife and I are no longer friends on Facebook—all I can see is her profile picture, which has not changed in several months. In the picture, she sits in an Adirondack chair, grinning, wearing a dress I don’t recognize. The dress is blue and looks a lot like a nightgown. I look at the picture and wonder, as I always do, when my ex-wife started to wear dresses that look like nightgowns. I wonder if her life now, six months after our divorce, more closely resembles the one she wanted. 

My phone buzzes. 

Lauren’s sick, Madeline says. But I’ll go if you go.

*

At Alice’s birthday party, Madeline pulls a beer from a cooler mixed with juice boxes and hands it to me. “I did the math, Sam,” she says. “By the time Alice is fifty, I’ll be dead.”

Alice is three. She is dressed as a hotdog, though it is not a costume party, and waving an orange popsicle. From the deck, we watch as she drops the popsicle on the lawn, picks it up, and sticks it in her mouth. “Where’s Nicholas?” I ask. Nicholas is Alice’s father. He, Madeline, and I shared a house on Calvert Street a decade ago, in our twenties. Madeline refers to them as the Ball Sack Years. 

“Hiding,” Madeline says.

“He said there would be other childless people. And he promised a moon bounce.” 

“Well,” Madeline says, “Nicholas a liar.”

Seven or eight children wander around the backyard like drunks, weaving through the sprinkler, crashing into stationary objects. A handful of parents gathers around the kiddie pool, casually vigilant. One of them is a red-haired woman in a gray shirt tucked into slim black shorts. She pulls a bottle of sunscreen from a bag and slathers it onto the arms of a small red-haired girl. “Should we go talk to them?” I ask.

The small red-haired girl lets out a long, piercing scream. 

“No,” Madeline says.

*

Nicholas appears with a store-bought vegetable tray and sets it on the table next to the cooler. “Good,” he says, “you found the alcohol.” He opens a beer. I met Nicholas at a party when we were twenty-six, after I overheard him tell a girl that he was deeply interested in ancient civilizations. I have come to learn that women find Nicholas appealing, regardless of what he is deeply interested in. 

The red-haired woman walks up to the side of the deck. “Is there another one of those?” 

Nicholas fishes a beer from the cooler, twists the cap off, and hands it to her. 

“Who’s that?” I ask, after she goes back to the kiddie pool. 

“Kate Holiday,” Nicholas says. “Her niece is in daycare with Alice.”

“That’s not her kid?” I ask.

“No,” Nicholas says. “Why?” 

“Sam likes redheads,” Madeline says. “Even though they make him miserable.”

I finish my beer and open another. “I’m not always miserable.” 

“Remember the time I came over,” she says, “and you were eating yogurt with a fork?”

“I was out of clean spoons.”

“You were unkempt.” Madeline raises her beer, in a toast. “Less so now.”

*

Alice climbs onto the deck. Her hotdog costume is a red tube with a yellow strip of felt down the center. She runs past her father and wraps her arms around Madeline’s legs. “I don’t get it,” Nicholas says. “Kids love you.” 

Madeline crouches to Alice’s height. “What do you have there?”

Alice holds up a plastic cow. “A dinosaur.” 

Nicholas shrugs. “She’s into dinosaurs.”

“What’s your favorite dinosaur?” Madeline says.

“T-Rex,” Alice says. “But his little arms make me sad.” 

“Honey,” Nicholas’s wife calls from the lawn. “Could you bring out the cake?”

Nicholas’s wife is wearing an off-white dress with a leather belt knotted at her waist; she gives the impression of someone who rode horses as a child. She has excellent posture and, the first time I met her, seemed either very shy or mildly disdainful. The second time I met her, she told a long, filthy joke about a priest and a prostitute and Darth Vader, and I started to understand her appeal. 

“The birthday cake?” Nicholas says.

“Yes, the birthday cake,” she says. “For our daughter’s birthday.”

“Where is it?” 

“It’s an ice cream cake. I’ll give you three guesses.” 

Nicholas takes a sip of beer. “Should I do the candles?”

Nicholas’s wife gives a big, dazzling smile. “How about you find a big box of matches,” she says, “and ask our three-year-old to light the candles?”

Madeline and I exchange the look we reserve for when other people’s relationships seem unenviable. Nicholas finishes the beer, tosses it into the recycling bin, and goes into the house. Alice sets the plastic cow on the deck and covers it with a paper napkin. “Be quiet,” she says. “The dinosaur is sleeping.”

*

Nicholas produces an ice cream cake without candles. We sing and eat the cake and the children run in literal circles around the backyard. Someone gives them water guns, and someone else wonders aloud if water guns promote gun culture. Madeline opens two beers and gives one to me. “If I drink too much and make a scene, maybe Nicholas will ask me to leave.” 

“Do you want to leave?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I want to complain.” 

We look at the adults on the lawn and play the game we sometimes play, where we try to guess the last time each of them had sex. “Your problem,” Madeline says, “is you think only good-looking people have sex.”

“Content-looking people,” I say. 

“That’s ridiculous,” she says. “Sex has nothing to do with being content.” 

“Interesting,” I say. “You and Lauren seem content.” 

I had dinner at their place the week before last: Lauren roasted a chicken, and the three of us split 2.5 bottles of wine. We talked about how Madeline’s work nemesis talked incessantly about toxins, and how Lauren was much better at smoking pot than Madeline, and how I should find a woman on the Internet because that was the whole point of the Internet, and because I still had a full head of hair. At the end of the night, they walked me to the front door, and Lauren hooked a finger through the pocket of Madeline’s jeans in a way that made me realize, acutely, that I would be going home to an empty apartment.

Madeline picks at the label on her beer. 

“You’re not content?” I say. 

She shrugs. “It’s like a video game. I thought when I met Lauren I had won the game. But then it kept going.” Her phone chimes and she looks at the screen. “Sometimes it’s hard,” she says. “And sometimes it’s boring.” She puts the phone to her ear, opens the door to the house, and closes it behind her. 

*

I stand there, alone, and look at the yard. Nicholas sits on the lawn, arm extended, as Alice slides colorful plastic bracelets over his hand. Nicholas’s wife joins them, settling on the grass in spite of her off-white dress. She leans over and kisses Nicholas on the cheek. I watch them for about thirty seconds before I start to think about the phone in my pocket and how, if I wanted to, I could look at it. That’s when the red-haired woman climbs onto deck. Kate Holiday.

She smiles. “You look confused.” She opens the cooler, sifts through the contents.

“Oh,” I say. “I am sometimes.”

“All the beer’s gone.” She looks at me. Her cheeks are flushed.

“Do you want a juice box?” I say.

“Tempting,” she says. 

I hold out my beer. “Do you want mine?”

To my surprise, she steps forward, pulls the bottle from my hand, and takes a sip. It occurs to me, distantly, that my heart is pounding. I wonder if there is a medical term for when that happens. I wonder if there is a medical term specific to when it is induced by another person.

“Your beer’s warm,” she says. 

“Yup,” I say. 

She grins and sets the half-empty bottle on the railing. I pick it up and we stand there, leaning against the railing. There is a breeze in the air. The sun drops behind a passing cloud and reemerges. The color of the grass shifts from a dark green to a lighter one. 

Somewhere in the backyard a kid starts crying—the small red-haired girl. “Oh dear,” Kate says. I watch as she walks down the steps to the lawn. When she reaches the grass, I pull out my phone, tap on Facebook, and search for Kate Holiday. I find her profile, which is only semi-private, and scroll through her seventeen pictures. Kate next to a cardboard cutout of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Kate in sunglasses, holding a coconut drink in one hand, a champagne glass in the other. Kate swinging in a hammock, laughing, the right side of her face hidden behind a white paper fan. 

I look up and see her on the lawn, a plastic wand poised at her mouth, blowing soap bubbles. She tilts her head, watching the bubbles float above the kiddie pool, brushes a strand of hair from her cheek, and hands the wand to the small red-haired girl. It would be so easy, I think, to join her there. To ask for her phone number. 

I imagine sitting beside her at a low-lit bar, drinking a second glass of bourbon, sharing a tiny, seven-dollar dish of olives. I imagine her swiveling on the bar stool, rolling an olive between her fingers, popping it in her mouth. I imagine a series of dates: different bars, different drinks, a slow and steady reveal of our imperfections. 

I look back at my phone and tap on her list of friends. I pause. I draw the phone closer to my face. Kate Holiday has a friend who looks a lot like my ex-wife.

It is my ex-wife, I realize. She changed her profile picture. 

In the new picture, my ex-wife stands in front of a brick wall painted bright green. She wears a blue t-shirt she bought years ago, from a truck that sold t-shirts and live goldfish in tiny plastic bowls. Her smile is big, her hair unruly. Snaked around her waist is a man’s arm. It is impossible to tell who the arm belongs to, because he is cropped out of the picture. It could, conceivably, belong to no one of significance. It could belong to my ex-wife’s brother, even though he lives in Lansing, Michigan and has not spoken to her in three years.

The phone, suddenly, feels hot and slick in my hand. It occurs to me that my wife is not my wife anymore, for a variety of tangible and less tangible reasons. She will never be my wife again. It occurs to me that I am thirty-seven years old and drunk at a child’s birthday party. There is a neat, searing pain in my right temple. 

Madeline returns to the deck. “You look like you’re about to throw up,” she says.

I finish my beer. “I have a headache.” 

She reaches over and presses a finger to my forearm. The imprint turns pink. “You’re burning,” she says. 

*

The house is cool and dark, the curtains drawn, the central air humming. The kitchen counter is littered with juice boxes and plates smeared with melted ice cream, the dining room carpet strewn with towels and alphabet puzzle pieces. I follow Madeline into the bathroom and watch as she pulls different bottles from the medicine cabinet. “There’s no headache stuff.” She closes the cabinet and brushes past me. “I’ll check upstairs.” 

I go to the living room and sink into the couch. I look at my reflection in the television. I look like somebody’s sad, drunk uncle.

Alice walks into the room, holding an assortment of jumbled towels. Her hotdog costume is bedraggled, the strip of yellow felt trailing behind her. She approaches the couch, takes the beer bottle, sets it on the floor. “Lie down,” she says. I stretch across the couch. “No.” She points to the carpet.

“Down there?” I say. 

“On the floor,” Alice says, solemnly.

The carpet is plush. I lie on my back. “Close your eyes,” she says, and I close them. “You’re sleeping,” she says. She puts her hand on my forehead, and then covers my face with a damp towel. At first, I wonder why the towel is damp. At first, I make a list of all the liquids it might be damp with. But the cloth is cool, and it smells like laundry detergent, and it feels pleasant, like a spa treatment. Alice covers my chest with a towel. She covers my legs with a towel, my feet. “Goodnight,” she says. I listen to her pad away on the carpet, into the kitchen. I listen to the back door open and close. I listen to the sound of my breaths, in and out.  

9 January, 2018

Sarah Mollie Silberman

holds an MFA from George Mason University and lives in Virginia. Her stories have appeared in Booth, CutBank, Nashville Review, Puerto del Sol, Yemassee, and elsewhere.