A Final Evening Out

A Final Evening Out

by Robert Aquino Dollesin

Melody Campbell came home clutching a pink slip.

Her husband, Artie, looked up from his bowl of soup and said, "We'll get by."

Two months passed. The phone didn't stop ringing. The mailbox filled with bills. Artie and Melody Campbell felt like two cats trapped in a cardboard box. A small and dark and cold box. A box without breathing holes punched in the top.

Finally, one evening the Campbells sat down and examined their finances. After jotting numbers down on paper they stared across the table at each other. Big eyed and wide-mouthed. Neither spoke. In the backyard, their two pugs, Bonny and Clyde, began to howl.

Trying to keep anxiety out of his voice, Artie said, "We gotta tighten our belts." He put his elbows onto the table and rubbed his face with the balls of his palms.

"We'll work through this," Melody said. She fanned the bills out on the table and jabbed at a few of them. She suggested to Artie they could live without the country club and gym. Even the cable television and internet services could be temporarily nixed.

But as the weeks went by, the Campbells realize they hadn't sliced aggressively enough.

Artie told Melody they needed to get rid of Bonny and Clyde. The two pugs were a drain on what little money Artie's security guard job brought in. Melody shook her head. She'd had them since they were puppies. Even longer than she and Artie had been married. Artie threw his hands into the air and said, "Guess even though you're the one who lost your job, I'll get rid of the Mustang my father gave me."

Melody began to cry. Artie asked her where the pink slip for the Mustang was.

"Okay," she said. "We'll let Bonny and Clyde go."

Artie got on the phone and called Animal Control. He made arrangements for Bonny and Clyde to be picked up.

Outside, Artie held the clipboard against the side of the big truck and signed the necessary forms. Melody stood off to one side of him, chewing a fingernail. While he waited, the uniformed Animal Control agent played with his keys. He glanced at Melody and said, "Times are tough. Everyone seems to be giving their pets up these days."

Melody said, "What if no one adopts them?"

The agent shrugged. Then he grinned, and slowly dragged a finger across his throat.

Melody burst into tears. She crouched down and hugged her babies, buried her face in their fur. "Can we not do this, Artie?" she begged.

Artie didn't answer. He finished up the forms and handed the clipboard back to the agent. One after another he helped the agent hoist the pugs onto the caged truck. When the dogs were safely behind the bars of the cage, the agent slammed the door shut. Both of the dogs started to whimper and Melody started to cry some more.

Artie stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Honey," he said, trying to comfort her. "We gotta do this."

They stood together on the sidewalk and watched the truck drive off.

During the following weeks Artie began noticing more and more foreclosed signs popping up on the front lawns of homes in the neighborhood. One evening at the dinner table he told Melody, "Sure are a lot of folks losing their homes."

They exchanged worried glances and sat quietly sipping their coffee.

On Friday of that same week, while Artie stood in front of the time clock at the security outfit he worked at, his boss came up to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Artie," his boss said. He reached past Artie and snatched his time card off the rack. Then he asked for Artie's badge. "Losing lots of clients right now. Times are tough."

Instead of going straight home, Artie drove his father's Mustang around the neighborhood. He took note of all the boarded up windows, empty homes with lock boxes dangling from doorknobs. He drove through the center of town. Panhandlers hustled at every stop light. Entire families tucked back in the coved entryways of closed shops. Passing the tent city that had popped up at the edge of town, Artie grew frightened. So many people, he thought. He felt sick to his stomach.

Finally, Artie pulled into a lot full of shiny new cars. Four men in ties raced out to greet him.

"I wanna sell the Mustang," he said. All the salesmen rolled their eyes. One of them laughed and said, "Nobody's buying cars, my friend. How about trading it in?"

Artie said, "I don't need a car right now." The man shrugged, made Artie a ridiculous offer. "Take it or leave it," he said.

The offer might get him and Melody through a month, but then what? No. He passed on the offer and the men in ties all shrugged without smiling.

At dinner that night Artie couldn't eat. He pushed his food around his plate. He had to tell Melody about being laid off, but couldn't find the right words.

Melody was saying something. Artie looked up. "What?"

"Aren't you listening, honey? Is something the matter?"

"Yeah," Artie said. Then he raised his voice, "Chicken. Why do we always eat chicken? I'm sick of chicken."

Melody stared at him a moment, then got up from the table and ran into the bedroom. He didn't mean to make her cry.

Without finishing his dinner, Artie went outside and sat on the porch. The neighbors across the street were loading a U-Haul. When he went back inside, Artie found Melody lying face down in the bed. "I didn't mean to jump at you," he said. He ran his fingertips down her arm. He leaned forward and kissed her neck. "I love you," he said.

Melody rolled over and swiped her eyes. "Tell me what's wrong, Artie. What is it?"

He told her.

She closed her eyes and Artie said, "Melody. Let's go out tonight."

"Where?"

Artie answered, "Anywhere. Let's just go out."

***

Artie pulled into the gas station, got out of the Mustang and stared up at the station logo, a fat green hippo. The Hipster Fuel Mart. He shook his head. What a stupid name.

When the numbers on the gas pump window quit spinning, Artie didn't take the nozzle out right away. He kept the trigger depressed, kept jiggling it until he was sure he'd drained every drop from the hose. He tried to remember when he'd first stooped to doing that. It was just after Melody got let go from the factory.

Melody stuck her head out the window. She said, "Something wrong, Artie?"

He shook his head and smiled. How long since they'd got rid of the two pugs? he wondered. It hadn't been that long ago, had it? Maybe he'd try and get them back for Melody. If they hadn't already been put down. Artie removed the nozzle from his car and slammed it in the cradle. He put his fingertips against the cold steel of his father's Mustang.

Everything would soon be gone, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Melody said again, "What's wrong, Artie?"

This time Artie didn't reply.

Melody stuck her head back inside the window. She crossed her arms and planted her feet on the dash. Artie stood next to the Mustang with his hands fisted on his hips. He scouted the station islands. Near the garbage he spotted a bucket of water, a red handle poking out of it. He went over to the bucket and grabbed the squeegee. He came back to the Mustang and began to scrubbing the windows. After he'd scoured the front and back windshields, Artie opened the trunk and tossed the squeegee inside. He yanked some paper towels off the dispenser and dried the windows off. Then he opened the driver's side door and slipped behind the wheel.

"What's got into you, Artie?"

Artie turned and glared at Melody without saying anything.

Melody said, "You're scaring me." Artie turned the key in the ignition and gunned the gas pedal, listening to the Mustang roar.

Melody sighed and closed her eyes. She leaned her head back against the headrest and said, "I'm scared, Artie. Really scared."

A big SUV pulled up behind the Mustang. Artie squinted into the side-view mirror. The driver behind the SUVs wheel leaned on the horn and flashed his brights.

"God Dammit!" Artie said. He opened the door and got out of the car. He walked slowly around it, pretending to examine the tires. The driver of the SUV tapped his horn again, stuck his head out the window and shouted, "Come on, buddy. Move up a little so I can get some gas."

With his fists clenched, Artie started toward the SUV.

The driver backed up in a hurry, shifted gears and shot past Artie so fast and close Artie could feel the heat of the big vehicle's engine. It screeched out of the lot and fled up the street.

Melody got out of the Mustang. She shook her head. "Let's go home, Artie."

Artie's body tingled all over. He moved within a couple inches of Melody's face. "Don't you get it?" he said. "In a few days there won't be any home for us to go to."

"You're scaring me," Melody said, wrinkling up her face.

He didn't answer. He whirled around and strode across the parking lot toward the mini-market.

"Artie, where you going?"

When he didn't answer, Melody hopped back into the car, rolled the windows up and locked the doors.

Inside the mini mart, a grinning kid stood behind the counter. Artie pressed his damp palms against his thighs. "I need to use the bathroom."

The kid smacked his gum without replying. He reached under the counter and came up holding a Pennzoil jug with a key attached. He laid the jug down next to some lighters and said, "Round back, man."

Behind the kid were some Marlboros. On sale. Buy one, get one free. Artie used to smoke Marlboros when he was a kid. "Give me one of those Marlboro specials," Artie said.

The kid snatched up two packs of the cigarettes. He slid them across the counter and punched some keys on the register. "Six bucks."

Artie's face twitched. He shook his head. "Sign says four bucks a pack."

"You're getting a deal, man," the kid said.

"But one's supposed to be free. The sign doesn't say, 'buy one, get one at half price.' It says buy one, get one free."

"Six bucks," the kid said again.

Artie took a deep breath. He tried to calm himself. He took his wallet from his back pocket, flipped it open and peeled six one-dollar bills out. He slapped the money onto the counter, smiled, and said, "Go fuck yourself, punk."

The kid shrugged, crossed his arms. He gestured with his chin to the big cardboard hippo next to the entrance. "Complain to the boss, man. I just work here."

Artie stuffed the smokes into his coat pocket. He grabbed the Pennzoil bottle off the counter. On his way out the door, he raised a fist and smashed it into the cardboard hippo's smiling face. The display toppled onto the floor and Artie stomped and stomped and stomped the stupid, finger-snapping animal's smiling face was separated from its fat green body.

The kid behind the counter picked up a telephone and said, "Oh, man. Oh, man. Now you've done it."

Artie reached into the inside of his coat, pretended to be holding a gun. The kid put the phone down and raised his arms in the air. "I didn't see shit," the kid said. "Not a fucking thing."

Shoulder against the glass, Artie pushed out the front door. He glanced back and pointed his finger at the kid. He then went around the corner of the building and unlocked the bathroom door.

Inside the bathroom he leaned against the wall a moment to try and slow his racing heart. When he'd calmed, he stood at the sink and looked at himself in the cracked mirror. Who was this distorted person staring back at him? He brought a glob of phlegm up from his throat and hawked the chunk at his reflection.

Then he saw the two rolls of toilet paper – still wrapped – on the floor next to the toilet. He smiled, picked them up and stuffed them inside his coat.

As he headed back to the Mustang, Artie tossed the Pennzoil bottle into one of the steel garbage cans next to the pumps. Hearing it thud against the bottom made him smile. When he got to the Mustang and found the driver's side door locked, he tapped the window. Melody studied his face through the glass. She shook her head. Artie slowly turned his back to her. He raised his right arm and in one quick motion, smashed the glass with his elbow. He reached in and raised the knob.

Melody screamed.

"Get out," Artie said.

She backed herself up against the passenger's side door.

In a softer tone, Artie said, "Please, Melody. Get out of the car."

For a long time Melody stared at Artie, her lower lip quivering. Finally, with tears in her eyes, Melody said, "I'm going with you. Wherever you go. Whatever it is you're going to do, I'm going with you."

Artie's eyes were wet. He reached into his coat pocket, took one of the Marlboro packs out and tossed them over the console to Melody.

Melody nodded. Still sniffling, she tore the cellophane off the pack and opened the flip-top box. She opened the glove compartment and dug some out some matches.

Artie noticed Melody's shoe prints on the dashboard. He took a roll of the toilet paper he'd stolen out of his coat and handed it to her. "Free," he said. "Didn't cost nothing."

Melody's voice broke. "What happened to us, Artie?"

"Use that toilet paper to wipe your face," Artie said. He started the Mustang and drove the vehicle out of the lot.

They got onto the highway. Artie rolled his window down, broken glass fell away from the frame. The wind felt good on his face. Without taking his gaze off the road, he said to Melody, "Fire up one of those smokes."

Melody took a Marlboro out of the pack. She bent low to screen the wind that was blowing through the Mustang. When she came back up, a puff of smoke streamed from her lips. She handed the cigarette to Artie.

He took a long drag and stared out the windshield. Then Artie laughed and some tears came to his eyes.

"Oh, Artie," Melody said. She reached over and cupped his trembling knee with her hand.

Artie jammed the gas pedal and watched the needle on the speedometer swing: Fifty - sixty -seventy -eighty. The Mustang shook. Everything under the hood rattled. Beneath the pedal, Artie could feel the hard floor.

They heard in the distance the wail of sirens.

Melody squeezed Artie's knee. She brought her hand up and plucked the cigarette from his lips. She sucked in deeply and blew the smoke out. She straightened in her seat and said,

"We ain't gonna let 'em get us, are we Artie?"

Artie leaned back and shook his head.

The Mustang was moving at just under a hundred. The crosswinds whipping in through the open windows thrashed both Artie's and Melody's hair. Paper snapped and whisked inside the Mustang.

Artie looked over at his wife. Melody was smiling, staring straight ahead out the windshield, the cigarette burning red between her tightly pressed lips.

A pebble shot up off the road, pinged against the windshield and webbed the glass.

Melody glanced over her shoulder and saw the two sedans, their lights flashing, their sirens shrieking. The police vehicles came up behind the Mustang. Melody reached across the console and dug her fingernails into Artie's arm, just above the wrist.

He grinned broadly, twisted the radio to full volume, then stomped the accelerator as far as it would go.

A New Day

Subbed to Foundling Review on 10/07/09 -- Rejected on 10/08/09
Note: This was close but not quite there. It lacked something, a barb or a hook.

***

A New Day
by Robert Aquino Dollesin

When she let it all out on the apartment building rooftop, I decided to do the honorable thing. Help her make the right decision. Love would come later. It always did, right?

"That what you want?" Kippy said. The wind punched her hair across her face, billowed the folds of her windbreaker. "Listen to yourself, Layne. Is that what you really want?"

I stared down at the toes of my Converse high tops. "Look," I said, "does caring have to be a bad thing?"

Kippy stepped away from the rail. "What about love?" she asked.

Our conversation ground to a halt then. If I knew she was going to fall in love, I never would have climbed into bed with her. I looked over the rail. Trails of blurred tail and headlights from moving vehicles. It was a long drop and everything looked so small.

Kippy said, "Your silence says a lot."

"I didn't force you," I said.

"Oh, I begged for it. That it, Layne?" Then she added, "It's okay if you don't love me. I guess all I ever wanted in the first place was for you to like me."

"Look," I said, trying to keep annoyance out of my tone. "I do love you. Okay?"

She laughed. "We don't have to."

"I want to."

Kippy, she looked directly into my eyes then, and said, "Please don't say those things if you don't mean them. Once upon a time ago my dad said those same things to my mom. They got married for all the wrong reasons. Had more kids. Bought a house. Thought they could slip into the dream. Then one day they both woke up realizing how big a mistake they'd made." Kippy laughed. "Funny. The love they never had went away."

When I didn't answer, Kippy said, "One day you'll wake up and won't be able to get out of bed. Just like my dad."

She stopped talking, but kept studying my face. Then she clutched a handful of her skirt and said, "If we do this, Layne, I don't want that to happen to us."

I crossed the roof and took her hands into mine. I said, "No, Kippy. It won't."

Kippy said, "Promise?"

"Promise," I said.

***

I wake, look at the clock on the nightstand. 7:08 in the AM. No different than yesterday. Kippy's already up, getting the kids ready for school. I smell bacon, hear the clatter of dishes, the kids stomping and shouting downstairs. I'm feeling empty, used up, and don't want to get out of bed. I could do with a day away from the office. A week. A year. A lifetime. I could just lie under the covers forever, pushing aside these feelings of nothingness that stream through every vein in my body. Push them away. Far away.

Shutting my eyes again, I burrow in against the pillow.

But I can't stay here, can I?

I throw the rumpled sheets off and climb out of bed, still thinking, you can't embrace life when you have a wife and kids, a house and job. All the things Kippy said we'd have. Same as her folks.

Halfway to the bathroom I overhear one of the kids downstairs say, "Don't forget to keep your promise, Mommy." Then Kippy, she answers, "I always keep my promises."

My knees wobble. I whirl around and stumble back to bed. I try to push aside all the reasons I've given myself for leaving. I had a life before Kippy screwed it up for me. I deserve that life back.

When the kids are out the door and off to school the house grows quiet.

A little later -- I'm not sure how long -- Kippy, she comes up the stairs to check on me. "Hurry up," she says, annoyed to find me still laying in bed. "Get up or you'll be late." She bends forward to yank the sheet off me.

I grab Kippy's arms, just above the wrists, and pull her down onto the mattress beside me.

"Stop. Would you." she says, frowning, slapping at my right hand. My free hand travels up past Kippy's breasts to her neck. The fingers splay. Her throat nestles perfectly in the webbed crotch between thumb and pointer.

Then, Kippy yanks free of my grip. In a simultaneously aggravated and desperate tone, she says, "Come on, Layne. You gotta get out of bed and go to work."

I keep my gaze on her face. Suddenly her eyes grow big. She shakes her head. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

A few moments of silence pass. "What?" Kippy says. "What?" Then, it must strike Kippy the same way it just struck me. She crumbles against me and begins to cry.

All these years she's finally understanding. Me, I'm finally getting it, too.

"Why are we here?" Kippy says.

"I made a mistake, didn't I? I mean, we both did."

"We can't change the past, Layne."

"But we can change the future."

Kippy, shaking her head, says, "I'm so tired of pretending everything's perfect when it's not."

"Then let's quit pretending," I say.

"Throw it all away?" Kippy says, staring up at me. "Including me and the kids?"

"That's the last thing I want to do," I say.

"Meaning?"

I pull Kippy close against me. Her hands travel over my back. Her breaths are warm against my throat. This morning I'm going to stay right here in bed with her beside me. Maybe even fix the things that were broken. Maybe even find a way to keep from breaking a promise I made a long, long time ago.

The One

The One

Two topless Japanese women wearing red bikini bottoms passed in front of where Cook and I were leaning back on the beach with our elbows in the sand. They both looked down at us and smiled. When I returned their smiles, the two women burst out giggling for no reason at all before they moved on without looking back.

I turned and looked at Cook. Sipping from his can of lemonade, he shook his head and let out a whispery sigh that seemed to rise from the depths of his diaphragm.

“Not them?” I asked, looking at Cook’s toes.

He shook his head again. Then he eyes grew big. He gestured in the direction of the water with his chin. Turning my head, I watched the blonde step out of the frothy shallows. Also topless, the blonde was thumbing at the hems of her drenched, lime-colored bikini bottom. She pushed her soaked hair out of her face and glistening beads of seawater rolled over her body and caught the sunlight just so.

“Her?”

Again, I glanced at Cook’s toes then watched him shake his head.

For a time we continued to study an endless stream of topless women, sculptured and natural, who mostly paraded the shoreline in pairs. We sat back in the sand and drank our lemonades while woman after woman strode, wagged, or raced across the gritty ground before us. But glimpsing Cook’s toes, I knew he hadn‘t yet discovered the right woman.

I sat up, crossed my legs, scooped a handful of sand and spent a few minutes transferring it from one palm to the other. Cook remained with his elbows resting in the sand and his knees pointed skyward. Every now and then a woman would pass with her lotion-slicked backside and Cook would trail her with his gaze. But not once did he give any indication of having found the right woman

Then, just when the sun hung in the sky at its highest point, I raised a hand to my eyes to shield the glare and saw her approaching. I looked over at Cook. He was already staring. Above the woman’s gray jogging pants she had on a thick copper-colored wool sweater, the ends of the sleeves clutched in her fists. She trudged past through the sand with her eyes kept on the pointed toes of her western boots. Wrapped around the woman’s waist and knotted at her hip was a green army blanket. The blanket hung to her ankles.

She walked ahead of us and not a curve was visible beneath the heavy fabric that covered her. She sat down facing the ocean. The breeze whipped the back ends of her black hair from one wool-covered shoulder to the other. Feeling my insides lighten, I turned to Cook and said, “It‘s her, isn‘t it?”

Cook didn’t reply. His eyes were moist, his mouth was open and his toes were curled. I knew that this was the one, and it suddenly troubled me that Cook too, was struck by the woman. But my heart bottomed out when I turned back to the woman and realized I was too late. In the moment I had glanced at Cook, the woman was being approached by most every man on the beach.

A Stress Free Afternoon

A Stress Free Afternoon



The plan was to relax, take in an afternoon movie and put aside the stress of work. I didn’t care what film would be filling the big screen. The point was to wind down after a crazy week of decision making. As I pulled into the theatre parking lot, I got a jolt when I saw the line wrapped around the building. I sighed, and even considered driving out of the parking lot and heading home. But instead, I convinced myself to loosen up. After glancing at the long line again, I took an empty spot at the back of the lot

It took twenty or so minutes for the line to get around the side of the building. I figured by rounding the corner I was halfway to the ticket counter. And by being on the sidewalk in front of the theater, I could pass the time studying each framed poster on the wall beside me, letting the colorful enticements of coming attractions ease my pent up tensions.

And it was while I stood in the slow moving line with my head turned, admiring the animated poster of an upcoming space thriller that the stupid actions of some damned teenage girl shattered my plans.

The girl wore a clingy black t-shirt tucked into the hem of khaki cargo shorts. I’d noticed her skirting the line, slowly working her way back from the ticket booth, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. It didn’t take an astronaut to pick up on the girl’s intent. She was hoping to bypass the wait by inserting herself into the line with someone she knew.

Before she reached me, the girl in the cargo shorts stopped and smiled. Her hand went out and took the wrist of the girl who stood directly ahead of me. “Hey, Shiela,” the girl in the cargo shorts said, “How you doing, Sheila?”

They began to chat. Schoolgirl things. Boys and dances and teachers and stuff. I felt heat all over my face and sucked in a lungful of air. I told myself not to let it bother me. After all, when I was a kid hadn’t I cut a line in the same manner a million times? I felt myself ease up. In fact, for a moment I was even pleased with my reaction. The girl in the cargo shorts had successfully sneaked into line ahead of me and, surprisingly, I’d managed to keep my cool.

I smiled and just then she swung her face round and smiled, too. Then she said, “You don’t mind if I cut in front of you, do you?”

I held my smile, but could feel the muscles around my lips tightening like a vice. The man standing behind me grumbled. Why did the girl have to open her mouth? She was home free. She’d slipped into the line without protest. Still maintaining my smile, I dug my fingernails into my palms and in the hope that she would turn back around and resume talking to her friend, I said nothing.

She didn’t do that, though. Instead, she repeated herself, louder this time. “Sir,” she said, “It’s okay if I cut ahead of you, right?”

Why couldn’t her friend turn around and claim that she’d been saving the spot? Why was it suddenly being left to me to allow, or not to allow, the girl in the cargo shorts a wrongful place in line? I didn’t come here for a stressful situation. This was the exact kind of tense moment I came here to get away from.

The man standing behind me leaned close and whispered, “You’re not just going to let her jump in front of you, are you?”

What could I do? If I told the girl in the cargo shorts to take a hike, I’d hurt her feelings. She might even cry. Besides, the wait was still long enough that she could call someone over to harass me for being so insensitive. A brother. A boyfriend. A father. Father’s don’t like to hear their daughters cry.

If I said it was okay for her to cut in front of me, well, that would mean I’d be deciding for everyone behind me. Inevitably, the tickets for the movie would sell out and the decision facing me now would affect someone. It might even affect me. Not that it would matter at this point.

The girl reached over and tugged my shirtsleeve. I blinked. I felt the smile still painted on my face. She said, “You don’t mind if I cut in line, do you? Just say so if it bothers you and I’ll leave.” She blinked several times in rapid succession. Her eyes appeared to well a little.

The guy behind me cleared his throat.

I stood there, my fisted hands trembling, sweat breaking out on my forehead.

The girl continued to stare at me. The guy behind me cleared his throat again. I suddenly remembered that someone at work had asked me if I’d ever seen the movie ‘Babel’ with Brad Pitt. He claimed it was a fantastic, thought-provoking film, one that explores the consequences of choices. I had never seen the film.

The girl turned away. She whispered something into her friends ear and stepped from the line, probably realizing she’d put me in a pickle.

I tore into my mind. There was a blockbuster several miles from my apartment. Surely, they’d have a copy of ‘Babel’ on their shelves.

As she started past me, the girl glanced at me once more. I opened my mouth to tell her that she could have my spot, that I’d just remembered a movie on video I really wanted to see. She hesitated beside me, kept her eyes fixed on mine.

My mouth remained open, nothing escaped. And the girl in the cargo shorts shook her hair out of her eyes and headed toward the end of the line.

Around Two in the Afternoon

A blonde dog


Around Two in the Afternoon
by Robert Aquino Dollesin


At around two in the afternoon the mailbox was not upset that the sprinklers rotating behind him had drenched him. On any other day, he would have been furious. But this afternoon he hardly noticed. He wasn't bothered by the sun's brutal rays baking down on him, either. Why not? Because his troubled mind kept turning over. The woman who occupied the cream-colored house behind the mailbox had already come outdoors seven times, opened him up and peered inside him to see if the mailman had left anything. If he could talk, the mailbox would have asked the woman why she was crying.

A champagne-colored poodle trotted past the mailbox like he owned the sidewalk. He stopped several feet later, returned to the mailbox, sniffed the wooden post that kept it rooted to the ground. Then, with his tongue wagging, the poodle lifted its right rear leg and sprayed a warm stream onto the post. Not even this bothered the mailbox today.

Two blocks away from the concerned mailbox, the postman stepped out of his box-shaped vehicle and snatched a bundle of letters from inside the bag slung over his shoulder. He rifled through the letters, selecting the envelopes addressed for the house he stood in front of. He deposited those envelopes. The back of the postman's neck was soaked with sweat. Before hopping back behind the wheel, he took a rag out of his back pocket and swiped the back of his damp neck with it. He squinted his eyes against the sun and exhaled a long breath. He should have called in this morning. With the weather so brutally hot, he wished he did. It wasn't just the weather that troubled him, though. It was his wife, too. The postman was convinced the bitch had been sneaking off with her lover while he pounded the pavement during the day. Someday he'd catch her, he thought. The bitch. As he climbed back into his vehicle, the postman did not notice the letter slipping out of his bag onto the road. He drove off.

A woman wearing gray sweatpants shielded her eyes from the sun's glare. Where was that poodle? That dog belonged to her husband. But who always got stuck taking care of it? Who else? If something happened to that poodle, or if that dog bit someone, who would be blamed? Who else? As she walked down the shady side of the road now, the woman in the gray sweatpants kept her eyes ahead, looking for any sign of the dog. Frequently, she raised her fingers to her bruised cheek. Her husband had done that to her. He'd do it again tonight, she thought. Smack her around. Even if she managed to bring the dog home unscathed, he'd slap her for some other reason. All she wanted right now was to get her hands on that damn dog and beat some sense into it. For a reason she couldn't explain, the thought of hurting the poodle satisfied her, made her smile while she walked along the sidewalk. She'd just returned from the 'Doggie Style' groomer in midtown when she opened the car door,. Before she could get hold the poodle's collar, the dog bolted. Oh, she hated that dog. And hated that her husband insisted she take the poodle once a week to a place called 'Doggie Style'. While passing a line of hedges, she spotted an envelope poking out from under the leaves. She stooped, grabbed the envelope and studied the address. It was a couple blocks away. She hoped the mailman wasn't that careless with her mail. Stuffing the envelope in the pocket of her gray sweatpants, she scanned the street ahead for her husband's dog.

Inside the cream-colored house, the woman still wrapped in her white terri-cloth bathrobe picked the arm of the record player up, and dropped it so the needle fell onto the edge of the vinyl. The record screeched, then came the lamenting music she'd been listening to all day. She went into the kitchen and poured herself another drink. What was her husband not telling her? He hadn't been home in two weeks and when he called the previous night, he said he wanted to tell her -- But, of course, he didn't finish his statement. Always he'd had a difficult time expressing his feelings. Always he resorted to writing letters instead. He promised the letter that revealed everything had already been deposited at the post office. She suspected bad news. She tried calling his cell phone a dozen times. But he wouldn't pick up. Why not? Raising her glass to her lips, the woman inside the cream-colored house closed her eyes and thought, It's over. After all this time it's over and there's not a thing I can do about it. She set her drink on the coffee table, went to the window, parted the curtains and watched for the mailman.

The poodle strutted, its clipped tail bobbing behind him. Free. He'd never felt so free. Free to jam his nose into the dirt. Free to search scents out from the other dogs that had passed this way. He stopped to leave his mark on every tree, hedge, mailbox, car tire, and fire hydrant he came across. Proudly, he held his head up and shot a stream of urine on a car tire, grinning as the rubber grew moist. He resumed his trot, moving at a casual, confident pace, slowing only when a car drove past, slowing to make sure it wasn't someone -- especially the bitch -- chasing after him. Irritated dogs barked from behind wooden fences. He barked back and laughed. Those trapped fools, he thought. Not me, though. Not today. Not ever again, perhaps.

If he were able to scream, and if he had arms he could raise up in the air and flail, the mailbox would have done so. He would have shouted out a warning to the postman, told him to watch where he was going! He couldn't do that, though, so when the postman's truck crashed into him, the mailbox fell backward onto the grass. He could do nothing but lay there and stare at his splintered wooden post. He stared up at the big hot sun and felt the laughing sprinkler's spray continue to splash over him.

An instant before the postman's truck smashed into the mailbox, the postman glanced up from the batch of mail he'd been gathering. Then -- BANG -- the wooden post of the mailbox was against the grill of his truck. Damn, he thought. Damn, damn, damn. His cheating wife was still on his mind, the images of her bucking in bed with someone wouldn't leave. He looked at the broken post in front of him and hopped out of his truck. Reprimanded. That's what he could expect. Reprimanded for being so careless. But maybe, he thought, and glanced around. Maybe no one had seen him hit the mailbox. Of course, there would be no such luck. Not for him. Why should there? The day was destined to be bad. He should have called in. Here he was working on the hottest day of the year and he was sure his wife was inside an air-conditioned hotel room, romping naked with her lover under cool clean sheets. The postman sighed when he spotted the woman come out of the cream-colored house and hurry his way.

The woman crossing the lawn held her robe shut at the throat. When she reached the postman, she said, "I'm looking for a letter." She did not pay attention to the toppled mailbox. "Do you have a letter for me?" she asked, worry in her red-rimmed eyes. "It's very important."

The postman ran the back of his arm across his sweaty forehead. "Ma'am," he said, trying to explain. "I'm terrible sorry about the mailbox. I just looked away from the road for a second . . . "

The woman bit her lower lip. "Please. Do I have any mail?"

The postman dug through the bundle of letters in his trembling hands. He shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "I'm sorry." The woman sighed, whirled, and started back to her porch. The postman shouted after her, "I'm gonna call the office, get this fixed for you. I promise someone will be right out. We'll get this mailbox standing again." He watched her open the front door, them slam it shut behind her. He got back behind the wheel of his truck and backed off the sidewalk. For a moment he stared at the mailbox lying on the grass. Before driving off, he mumbled, "She's probably fucking her lover right this minute."

The Doggie Style? How humiliating was that? What people must think when the see me go in and out of that place. The woman in the gray sweatpants stopped in front of the splintered mailbox post. Where the hell was the dog? She suddenly remembered the letter she'd found beneath the hedge. She dug the letter out of her pocket and was about to walk around the sprinklers to the front door of the cream-colored house when she spotted the poodle. There you are, she thought. She glared as the dog strutted boldly ahead on the sidewalk, his groomed ass shifting side to side as if mocking her. She bore her teeth and hollered out the dog's name. Then she jammed the letter pack into her pocket and started running in the direction of the dog.

The dog stopped and half-turned his head. Someone had called out his name. Who? Oh, crap, he thought. How'd she find me? He stood frozen as the woman in the gray sweatpants closed the distance between them. The poodle's heart jumped and without looking, he bolted into the street.

The postman's mouth went wide. He pounded his brake pedal and winced when he felt the thump under his tires. Crap, he thought. Not again. Not again. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and pounded the dashboard with a fist. Not again. Not again. Slowly, he raised his head and got out of the truck. Instinctively, his right hand hovered over a can of dog spray that was attached to his belt. Just in case. When he came around the hood of the car he saw the dog lying there with its eyes wide open. He knew. He knew he'd killed the poor thing.

Panting, trying to catch her breath, the woman in the gray sweatpants whose dog had just been run over reached the front of the mail truck. She covered her mouth with her hands. The postman paced back and forth, his hands in the air above his head, the words, Oh, man. Oh, man, repeatedly escaping his throat. The woman in the gray sweatpants said nothing. She just stared at the road where the poodle lay motionless and unblinking. Then she started to laugh.

The postman quit pacing. He said, "The dog came out of nowhere. It just shot out of the bushes or something." He studied the woman whose hands were still covering her face. "Is this your dog?" he asked. She nodded. She was laughing. The postman thought, She's going to make trouble. "Look, lady," he said. "You can't blame me for this. There's a leash law in the city, you know." He waited for her to respond, but she said nothing. Her eyes were wide and glassed over, and she kept laughing.

Inside the cream-colored house the woman emptied the bottle into her glass and carried the glass into the bathroom. She set the plug in the bathtub, ran the hot water. While she waited for the tub to fill, she opened the medicine cabinet and removed a bottle of tablets. She twisted the cap off and with the last of her gin she swallowed the bottle's contents. He got what he wanted, she thought. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't have sex with him. The doctor had told them both it could kill her. But it's all right. It's all right. He's happy now. She slipped out of her white robe and stepped into the steaming tub. She laid down in the water and watched the steam curl around the bathroom before she shut her eyes.

There would be no escaping a beating tonight. Still, she believed she'd never seen anything so funny as the poodle lying there with its snout in a growing pool of blood. She touched the bruise on her cheek again. Then she checked her watch. She didn't need him, anyway. She had more than enough time to pack her bags and get out of that miserable house. No more beatings. No more embarrassing visits to the Doggie Style. No more following the pampered poodle around with a pooper scooper. She continued to laugh. She laughed so hard she had to swipe her eyes.

The postman murmured, "I've got to stay focused. Too much bad stuff is happening." The laughing woman bent over the dog. Her hands dropped from her face to cup her knees. She continued laughing. What the hell? the postman thought. What's going on today?. First the mailbox, now the dog. My wife is screwing her lover. This lady in front of me can't stop laughing. What's going on? The postman took a deep breath and pulled his cellp hone from his pocket. He called his supervisor. Oh, he's got troubles now. Real troubles. He hated his wife. He hated her.

Still laughing, still crying, the woman whose husband's dog lay splattered on the road reached into her pocket and came up with the letter she'd found earlier. She shook her head, handed the envelope to the postman and smiled. "This was on the ground," she said. "I found --" But she couldn't finish. She started to laugh again.

The postman took the letter. He noticed the address and wondered if it was the letter the woman in the cream-colored house so desperately wanted. He began laughing, too.

In a midtown hotel room, a man laying naked in bed stroked the hair of the woman beside him. He scooted closer against her naked body. "My wife should have the letter by now," he said. The woman beside him closed her eyes. "I told her I wanted a divorce," he said. But this was a lie. He never could speak his thoughts. Always he wrote letters. What the woman beside him didn't know was that on the following day she would receive a letter. A letter that said goodbye. The letter he'd written to his wife was one asking for forgiveness. She needed him more than he imagined. He realized that now. How could he had been so blind. Even now, with his lover in his arms, he missed his wife more than anything.

The postman's wife sat up in bed suddenly and said, "My, God! What time is it?" The man next to her looked at his watch and replied, "A little past two." "Lordy," the mailman's wife said. "Oh, Lordy. I have to get going. My husband will be finished with his route by now. He's been acting strange lately. Been asking a lot of questions." She quickly stepped into her jeans and yanked them up. She snatched her blouse of a chair next to the bed and as she slipped her arms into it, she went to the window. Across the street, faint in the sun's glare, a neon light flashed on and off. She squinted, trying to read what it said. And while she buttoned her blouse, she asked her lover, "What the hell is a Doggie Style? A restaurant or something?"

The man who did not yet know his beloved poodle had been run over by the postman came out of the Doggie Style. He raised the paper bag he was carrying and peered into it. He grinned. His poopsie would love the red silk ribbons and the tinny poodle sweater. Walking with his knees high and his arms swinging, the man couldn't wait to get home and bury his face in his baby's fur.

On the lawn in front of the cream-colored house, the mailbox felt the sprinkler spit droplets of water over him. He felt the sun's hot rays burn into him. Even if he could get up on his own, he probably wouldn't bother. Something was wrong inside the house. He felt it. And a heavy sadness fell over him. As the sun traveled from one side of the sky to the other, he simply lay brooding under the sprinkler on the soaked spongy lawn.

Necessary Distractions

Hi Twelve Stories,

Please consider this recently reworked older piece 'Necessary Distractions' for inclusion in a future issue of Twelve Stories.

Thank you,

Robert Aquino Dollesin

robertdollesin@comcast.net

Necessary Distractions

by Robert Aquino Dollesin

Jennifer sat across from me at the breakfast table. She asked, “Why can't you hold a job?” Evidently, my layoff from her brother's company – the most recent in a string of layoffs – hadn't slipped her mind yet.

I gripped my spoon tighter and lowered my gaze. The bowl that the cereal floated inside of was patterned with yellow daisies. Lots of daisies dangling off green stems. I'd always thought daisies were simple, special flowers. I liked how they were scattered along the inside edge of the bowl, lapping the rim. The bowl was deep porcelain, seemingly bottomless. I shoved aside some of the floating cereal with the back of my spoon and it surprised me that I could see the ceiling fan's distorted reflection sputtering lazily around the milk's creamy surface.

“Our bills,” Jennifer said. “We're behind on all of our bills. Every time the phone rings . . . when the mailman drives by . . . I get these anxiety attacks.” She buried her face in her hands.

Carefully, I broke the white surface in the bowl and watched my spoon fill with milk. I submerged the spoon deeper, then scooped up some of the cereal. I raised the collected Captain Crunch in front of my face. The golden, creased squares reminded me of the dimpled throw-pillows on the living room sofa. Except the pillows weren't tiny, and not gold. They were red-and-white checkered with little pink tassels hanging off the corners. The cereal hadn't been in the milk long enough to become soggy, so when I ground down its texture was gritty between my teeth. I grimaced. Before swallowing, I let the cereal soften in my mouth, let the taste linger on my tongue and palate.

When Jennifer got up from the table and went over to the sink, her house slippers slapped the floor. And that made me think that just because I didn't have a job to go to, I couldn't get caught up in the morning courtroom television programs. The minute Jennifer left for work I'd slip into the white Converse high tops my mother had given me for Christmas and take a long walk around the neighborhood. The Converse were for walking, and I was careful not to stain them because if my mother spotted grass or mud on the shoes, she'd lecture me on the importance of taking care of things.

Also I promised myself that when I took my walk this morning, I'd shut the doors on the roadside mailboxes I'd open and peer inside of. I'd force myself to refrain from stripping rubber bands off newspapers resting on lawns. I wouldn't chase any of the cats that roamed the neighborhood, rooting in gardens. And as for unscrewing the little black plastic valves off the tires of cars sitting in driveways – I wouldn't do that, either.

The cigar box in the garage was already full of rubber bands and tire valves. Some afternoons I'd position all the valves like little soldiers on the living-room furniture, then I'd shoot the rubber bands like cannonballs, destroying the valve army. Of course, the place had to be cleaned up and everything stowed back in the cigar box before Jennifer got home from her first job at the tax place, or I wouldn't hear the end of it.

She turned the water on and began to scour the piled up dirty dishes. “I work two jobs,” she said, making a show of clattering the dishes, “plus, I'm the one who always ends up doing the chores around here.”

The criss-crossing blue and yellow stripes on the plastic place mat beneath the cereal bowl were different widths. The vertical blue stripes were maybe a fraction of an inch broader than the horizontal yellow ones. I placed my thumb alongside one of the blue stripes to measure it, then I did the same with one of the yellow stripes.

I was right. The blue stripes were wider, though not by much.

“Morgan at the diner thinks I'm a fool for not leaving you,” Jennifer said.

The plastic rings holding the curtain above the sink slid across the metal rod with a grating noise, and the room brightened like some sign for me to embrace. I paid attention to signs. My life had been full of them. Rooms darkening and lighting, things found unexpectedly, revealing sentences popping out of books, recurring images staring at me from the television.

“She says men like you don't change. Can't change.”

In the new light, the orange Captain Crunch box seemed more vibrant. The Captain stood in his blue sailor suit on the front of the box, saluting. Cereal boxes nowadays are difficult to open. First you have to get the flap unglued. If you don't do it right, it'll tear and later becomes almost impossible to tuck. Then you have to rip the wax package just right to form a kind of spout. If you don't, when you try to fill the bowl you end up spilling cereal all over the place. It bothers me that cereal these days have no prize to discover and thrill over. Not like when you were a kid.

With my free hand, I spun the box around and studied the cheap game printed on the back. Jennifer continued to bicker in front of the sink, and that made it almost impossible to follow the character-filled maze with my eyes.

“Maybe you could try calling Trevor, asking him for your job back,” she said. “Promise him you won't come in late anymore. Beg him for another chance. We could really use the money.”

On the narrow side of the cereal box were columns of tiny, almost unreadable print: iron, thiamin, riboflavin, niacin, lots of vitamins. My mother said breakfast cereal made you hyper. But the truth is, cereal makes you drowsy. Wouldn't it be something if you could get a prize out of the box. Some spinning top, or zip-pull car, 3-D baseball card?

The water stopped rushing out of the faucet. Jennifer snapped her wet dishrag and hung it up. Then she came back and sat down next to me at the table. She reached out and set her damp hand on my bouncing thigh. “I'm not mad at you,” she said. “I just want you to be more responsible. I want us to work together to get through these tough times.”

I glanced and noticed some tears in her eyes. She waited for me to reply. But what could I say? There are only so many ways a person can say they're trying to make things better.

Jennifer needed to vent. I knew that, and I needed to back off and let her. All our other problems would eventually work themselves out. They always did.

Her lips moved, and although no sound escaped her mouth, I made out the words she hadn't been able to say out loud. What she'd said was, “I hate that sometimes you make me hate you.”

The vinyl floor was cold beneath my bare feet and maybe that's why I couldn't get my knee to stop bouncing.

I peered past Jennifer to the fruit-shaped magnets speckling the refrigerator door. The inverted yellow banana looked like a frowning crescent moon in a steel sky. The upside down strawberry with its green stem reminded me of a drunk red-faced man drunk wearing a crooked bow tie. I never told Jennifer I'd shoplifted the magnets from K-Mart. Just stuck them in my coat pocket and walked past the security guard who was flirting with the deli lady. Good thing I took the magnets though, because they came in handy, holding up jotted notes, little post-it reminders, unpaid bills and unfilled prescriptions to the refrigerator door.

She sighed, took her hand off my thigh, got up from her seat and said, “I have to get ready for work.” Then she stopped next to me, leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Call Trevor. Please,” she said.

I nodded. Trevor didn't go to lunch until noon, so I could still go for a walk and call him when I got back. Working for him wasn't so bad, really. On account of Jennifer being his sister, Trevor lets me pace myself as I please. Last week, I saved all the shavings from the pencil sharpeners in the office, brought them home, spread them over the ground near the fence. I'd seen on television how doing that helps keep anything growing beneath healthy. I'm not so sure they used pencil shavings, though, but it was something that looked similar.

I scooped another spoonful of cereal. This time it was soft and soggy. Just the way I liked it.

***

Distractions

She sat across from me at the breakfast table and asked, “Why can't you hold a job?”

The bowl that the Captain Crunch cereal floated inside of was patterned with yellow daisies. Daisies along the inside edge, lapping over the rim. It was a deep porcelain bowl, seemingly bottomless. I used the back of my spoon to push the cereal to one side of the bowl. On the milk's creamy surface I could see the ceiling fan's distorted, sputtering reflection lazily spinning round.

“We're behind on all of our bills,” she said, burying her face in her hands. “And I'm afraid to answer the telephone or open the mailbox.”

I dipped my spoon into the bowl, watched it fill with milk before scooping up some cereal. Slowly, I raised the collected Captain Crunch to my lips. The golden, creased squares resembled the dimpled throw pillows on the living room sofa. The cereal hadn't sat in the milk long enough to become soggy – the way I liked it -- so when I ground down and felt its gritty texture between my teeth, I grimaced. Before swallowing, I let the taste linger a moment in my mouth, my tongue, my palate. Without a doubt, the sugar-loaded cereal would drowse me.

When she got up from the table and trudged over to the sink, I promised not to let myself get caught up in the morning courtroom television programs. I promised myself the moment she left for work I'd slip into my sneakers and take my morning walk around the block. I promised myself not to look inside any of the roadside mailboxes, or stomp my feet at any of the neighborhood cats.

She turned the water on and began to scrub the dishes. She made a show of clattering the dishes and snapping the dishrag. “I work two jobs,” she said, “plus I end up doing most everything around here.”

On the table beneath the cereal bowl sat a plastic place mat. Its surface was criss-crossed with blue and yellow stripes. The vertical blue stripes looked a fraction of an inch broader than the horizontal yellow ones. I placed my thumb alongside one of the blue stripes, then did the same with one of the yellow ones. I was right. The blue stripes were wider. Though not by much.

“Morgan at the diner thinks I'm crazy staying with you,” she said.

I didn't answer. I heard the plastic rings that held the curtain above the sink slide across the metal rod. The room brightened.

“Morgan says men like you don't change. Can't change.”

In the new light, the orange Captain Crunch box seemed more vibrant. On the front of it the Captain stood in his blue sailor suit, saluting. The problem with cereal nowadays was once you got the flap open, and once you tore through the wax inner packet, there was no prize to discover and thrill over. Not like when you were a kid.

I turned the box around and studied the cheap game printed on the back. Trying to follow the character-filled maze with only my eyes was not only confusing, but nearly impossible as long as she kept bickering in front of the sink.

“Maybe you could call Trevor, ask for your job back,” she said. “Tell him you won't come in late anymore. Beg him for another chance.”

Columns of tiny, almost unreadable print filled one of the box's narrow sides: iron, thiamin, riboflavin, niacin, lots of vitamins. It couldn't be all bad for you, could it? Still, it would be something if you could get a prize out of the box. Some spinning top, or zip-pull car, 3-D baseball card.

The water stopped rushing out of the faucet. She hung the dish rag up, came back and sat down next to me at the table. She reached out and set her damp hand on my bouncing thigh. “Why can't you be responsible?” she said. “Why can't we help each other get through these tough times?”

I glanced away from the cereal box and into her face. There were some tears in her eyes. I knew all she wanted was an answer as to why our world had hit the skids. But who could come up with answers to such questions? There were only so many times someone could say that they'd try and make things better. If I'd learned one thing during the course of our marriage, it's that when she needed to vent, I needed to back off and let her. All other problems would eventually work themselves out.

Her lips moved, but not a sound escaped her mouth. I made out, though, the words she hadn't been able to say out loud. “Sometimes I hate that I love you.”

I almost mouthed something back. Something like, “I love you,too.” Instead, I peered past her to the fruit-shaped magnets on the refrigerator door. I focused on the yellow banana that looked like a crescent moon hanging in a steel sky. I gazed a long time at the upside down strawberry with the green stem. It reminded of a red-faced man wearing a green bow tie. Beneath the banana and the strawberry magnets, I noticed my unfilled prescription.

Maybe I'd visit the pharmacy today. Just maybe.

Brief Bio:

Robert Aquino Dollesin was a kid when he left the Philippines. He now
lives in Sacramento, where on occasion he jots down a few things. He
sometimes blogs here: http://robertaquinodollesin.blogspot.com/

Corkey's Hug

The window seat

No, do you?

Not really

The graffiti-covered walls where shops used to be.

***

Cork's Hug

Cork's sitting beside me on the school bus, next to the window. Each time he draws attention to us by peeling back the Velcro strap on his backpack, I feel the disgusted stares from the other students on the bus. When he uses the back of his hand to swipe a string of moist snot off his upper lip, I hear the hushed snickers.

I shift in my seat so that my back is facing him. Looking down at my tennis shoes in the aisle, I wonder why Cork doesn't seem to realize everyone's making fun of him. How agonizing would it be for his to take just a few seconds to comb his hair in the morning?

"Keep an eye on him." My mom tells me that every morning. If not for my mom and Cork's mom working together as housekeepers in the downtown Hilton, there would be no chance of him being anywhere near me.

From behind me, Cork says, "Hey, Eli?"

I slowly turn my head, just in time to catch him taking a pinch of his t-shirt and scrubbing his nose with it.

"Yeah," I reply, hoping he catches my annoyed tone. "What do you want?"

Blinking his eyes rapidly, Cork grins and says, "You know how big our moms are, right?"

I don't say anything.

"Well," Cork goes on. "Today I'm gonna hug every fat girl I see."

The girls in the seat behind us begin to laugh. Probably about Cork and me. About our moms being big. About him hugging every fat girl he runs across today.

"Giants win last night?" I mutter, instead of replying to Cork's stupid statement.

Cork says, "Nobody ever hugs heavy women."

I nod silently. Cork must have mistaken the gesture for agreement, because he starts to ramble on about how this past weekend he and his mom went to the movies. They sat in the way back. While the movie played, Cork says, he noticed lots of people hugging each other in the dark.

"That so?" I say.

"When the movie was done . . . " Cork says. He blinks rapidly again, then slowly rips away the Velcro strap on his backpack. I keep quiet, let him go on. "While we were walking through the parking lot, a car driving past us slowed down and some kids stuck their heads out of the window."

The girls in the seat behind us began discussing a boy in their history class. Some guy named Terrence who played football. Some guy whose mom probably didn't make him babysit a snot-nosed neighbor.

"They started calling my mom names, Eli. Bad names."

"Bunch of dumb kids," I say without looking up from my hands, which are resting folded on my lap.

"Eli?"

I raise my head, look past Cork out the window and watch boarded up shop windows glide past. Behind us, one of the girls shrieks, "Oh, my God!" Then they both start laughing uncontrollably.

"Every one of them," Cork says. "Every single big woman I see today I'm gonna hug. Not just the ones whose husbands left them for someone thinner. Not just the heavy ones who fall asleep at night without turning the TV off." He pauses, then sighs deeply before continuing on. "All of them, Eli," he says. "Not just the ones who cry in the middle of the afternoon for no reason at all. But every one of them. I'm gonna hug them all."

I'm not sure why, but a fractured image of my mom suddenly strikes me. She's still thin. She still laughs a lot. My dad must still live with us.

Once the bus stops in front of the school, I get up and join the other kids filing down the aisle. As I near the exit, over the voices of the students, I make out the sound of Velcro being pulled. He hasn't gotten up from his seat yet.

The moment I'm outside the warm morning air hits me. I hop off the bottom step onto the sidewalk and start across the courtayard. I hurry past Miss Cooper, the fat lunch lady who's standing with her palms on her hips, blowing shrill commands through a whistle that keeps the kids moving away from the bus drop and in the direction of the classrooms.

Halfway across the courtyard of which the classrooms surround, I hear a burst of laughter from behind me.

Whirling around, I can't believe what I'm seeing.

Cork has his arms wrapped around Miss Coopers thick body, his head buried in her belly. A startled, concerned expression has spread across Miss Cooper's downturned face.

Letting his arms fall to his sides, Cork backs away from Miss Cooper, swiping his nose. He grins broadly and says loud enough for everyone to hear, "You deserve that, Miss Cooper."

The whole student body falls so silent you can hear the dried leaves covering the courtyard rustle when the breeze blows and scatters them. Everyone, I'm sure, wants to see what Miss Cooper will do.

Miss Cooper tilts her head to one side. Then all of the sudden a broad smile comes to her face.

The silence in the air diminishes when someone starts to clap. Soon, everyone is clapping and cheering. Miss Cooper, red-faced now, though still smiling, raises her whistle to her lips and the shriek she releases gets everyone moving again. Including Cork.

I stand watching as palms fly up to slap his back in a congratulatory manner.

During my morning classes, I can't concentrate. I keep thinking of Miss Cooper's reaction when Cork hugged her. Later at lunch, I move along the tray slide and stare through the grease-speckled plexiglass at Miss Cooper. She's got on an apron now. Her hair's bunched up under a net. As she scoops mashed potatoes onto my plastic tray, I notice her usually pasty face has high color in it. Her eyes glow as if they're catching light off every piece of metal in the auditorium.

But mostly it's Miss Cooper smile that gets me. She still has the same wide, surprised grin that dominated her face moments after Cork hugged her.

Throughout the day the schoolyard buzzes with a crazy, lighthearted vibe. Something like that feeling that affects almost everyone when they open their nostrils wide to take in that first whiff of spring perfume and warmth after a long, cold miserable winter.

On the bus ride home, Cork sits next to me, smiling. He doesn't say much. Just stares at his backpack, occasionally ripping back the Velcro strap. Other kids on the bus still whisper and laugh. But I'm pretty sure it's not about Cork.

Looking straight at Cork, I grin, too. If my mom's still home when I get there, I think I'll give her a big hug. She deserves one.

Buttonquail

You're asking me to dance? Me?

I nodded.

Why?

***

Roland had come in through the front door with a burlap sack swinging from his belt. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, removed the sack, held it up and shouted for Pretchy-Anne to come down and clean the quail. Her door opened. The wooden steps creaked as she made her way down. And then she was standing there, rubbing the sleep off her eyes.

At the kitchen sink, Roland loosened the drawstrings on the sack and dumped the dazed quail into a shallow basin. I counted seven. Five still alive, shivering in the porcelain, making no sound, only blinking their black marble eyes. The other two birds lay dead, two heaps of bloodied feathers, perhaps from a blow meant to stun, maybe from the fear of being in the dark with the others, knowing death was inevitable. Or it might have been that their deaths had been brought about by the merciful grace of something else.

***





The table in the yard was set with
a thick rattan stick
discrete
squeamish
The slow sweeping cone of his light

***

Buttonquail

They held my cousin Elineta's wedding reception at the Grandfather's house.

The moment we arrived, I parted from my parents and siblings and sought out Uncle Roland's sister-in-law, Pretchy-Anne. Whenever visiting the Grandfather's house, I would spend most of my day with her. She was my age, twelve, and before tonight she had never judged me, or made me feel different. But that evening I couldn't find her.

Guests, many of whom I didn't know, crowded the large yard. Although there were lots of Filipinos -- friends of the family -- there were also a few Americans, friends of the groom, standing around the long wooden table in the center of the yard, neatly dressed in barong tagalog's.

The table was full. Laid out on banana leaves were two slaughtered hogs, countless chickens, and dishes overflowing with local foods. There was a three-tiered caked surrounded by glass bowls filled with sliced, chilled fruit.

Sampaguita flowers hung in garlands throughout the yard. I breathed in their warm, jasmine-like scent and watched a man on a wooden platform sing a romantic mariachi ballad. Behind him, three men with broad straw hats covering their heads strummed along on guitars.

Everyone seemed to be laughing. Having fun. Dancing.

Maybe if Pretchy-Anne was here, instead of watching the moon skip over the polished flagstones, I'd be dancing alongside it.

Each time I wondered where Pretchy-Anne was, I worried. Everyone I asked replied by shrugging and saying she should be here.

Once again I scanned the crowd. This time I met the gaze of the American serviceman who Elineta had married. We exchanged a long stare, after which the American smiled, brightly, then winked. Like he and I had something in common. Like we shared some fantastic secret. I flashed my most hateful scowl and whirled away.

When I ran across Eric, Pretchy-Anne's older brother, a flood of relief came over me. I asked him, "Where's your sister?"

"She'll be here later," Eric said. He blew out a mouthful of smoke and stomped his cigarette out on the ground. Although Eric was only thirteen, nobody seemed to mind that he smoked.

"But why hasn't she already come?" I asked.

"She got woke up late last night. To prepare quail."

"Quail?" I had never heard of quail. "What's that?"

Eric laughed. "Birds, of course. We hunted last night."

"Who?"

"Me and Roland."

Eric and I drifted away from the crowd. He lit another cigarette. We sat at a wooden bench along the fence, under an awning of mango laden branches.

It was dark enough now that the lights in the yard cast trembling glows. The star-shaped lanterns made of colored cellophane flashed brightly over the faces of the guests.

Still curious about quail, I asked Eric, "I don't understand. What do you do? Do you flush the birds from bushes?"

Eric shook his head and laughed again. Then he explained how he and Uncle Roland sometimes hunted quail in the surrounding countryside late at night.

While Eric swept the ground with a flashlight, Uncle Roland, armed with a narrow bamboo switch, lurked near the cone of moving light. The instant the light found a startled quail, Uncle Roland brought his weapon whooshing down on top of the bird's head. Then he quickly stooped, wrapped his fingers around the stunned bird and stuffed it into a drawstring pouch that hung from the waist of his pants.

Eric tossed his glowing cigarette butt onto the grass and then wiggled his fingers to describe the way the live quail fluttered while trapped inside the bag against Uncle Roland's thigh.

Last night they caught seven quail. It was very late when they finally got home. Roland had mounted the wooden stairs and woke Pretchy-Anne. He told her to come down to the kitchen to kill, pluck, and clean the birds, so they could freeze the birds for later eating.

"She cried the whole time she stood at the sink," Eric said, contorting his face to mock her expression. "She hates cleaning quail. She complains about being forced to do things she doesn't want to do, just because it's what the family, or anyone else, expects."

Eric stood. He patted his shirt pocket for another cigarette. "I gotta go," he said, lighting the cigarette. I watched him cross the yard, the red glow from the tip of his cigarette moving from hand to mouth in the faint light.

Sitting alone, hearing the music, smelling the food, I thought of Pretchy-Anne. Not long ago she'd told me that when she grew up she wanted, like Elineta, to marry an American. She wanted so badly to leave this dreadful country. I sometimes made-believe that I was that American whom Pretchy would marry. But was I even an American? I was white, true. Anyone could see that. But both my parents were Filipino. What did that make me? I had no idea if I could honestly claim as my country this place or that. Or, for that matter, anyplace at all.

The thought of Pretchy cleaning the birds came back to me. As I concentrated on the image of the frightened quail, I heard someone behind me say, "Oh, there you are."

It was Pretchy-Anne.

I got up off the bench, smiling, and led her across the yard to the table where the food still steamed and threw off odors that made your stomach growl in delight. As I loaded food onto a paper plate for Pretchy-Anne, I couldn't help but notice how gorgeous a girl she was. Her long creame-colored gown covered her feet. Her hair, for once, was not tied back with a rubber band, or scrunchie, or claw clip. In the warm and fragrant evening breeze the ends of her hair rose and dropped, rose and dropped.

With our plates held in front of us, we crossed the courtyard and sat back down on the same wooden bench beneath the same slightly trembling mango leaves where she'd found me. It was dark now, completely, and under the stars the music still played and couples still danced.

For a while Pretchy-Anne and I sat without speaking. Picking at our food with our fingers. Finally, to have something to talk about, I brought up the quail she'd been forced to clean.

Raising her face to grimace, Pretchy-Anne said killing things -- anything -- disgusted her. She went on to say that she probably wouldn't have minded cleaning the birds if they had already been dead. Like fish from the market, or frogs gigged in the muddy paddies and immediately gutted. But with the quail she actually had to use her bare hands to grab the birds around the neck and twist until the quail dangled limp and dead. Along with their frightened squawks and their pleading eyes the killing of the quail, Pretchy-Anne said, broke her heart.

As light from the flashing cellophane lanterns struck her face, I couldn't help but notice Pretchy-Anne looked strangely different tonight. Makeup. She wore makeup. I'd never seen her in makeup before. The red lipstick and the stuff she thickened her lashes with made her look older than twelve, made her look like a woman, which in a way, I guess, she was.

I couldn't help but wonder if the little girl with the coltish legs and scabbed knees was still inside this woman? Did the little girl disappear somewhere? Where was the child who screamed with delight each time the pink bubble blooming from between her lips exploded.

When the musicians in straw hats started another ballad, I set my plate down on the bench beside me and asked Pretchy-Anne if she wanted to dance. Without answering, she looked away to the lanterns dangling from tree branches not far from us. She rotated her paper plate in her hands. Then she turned to face me, smiled falsely, and said, "Maybe later, okay?"

Not five minutes had passed when another boy, a Filipino boy who might have been a couple years older than us, strolled up to where we were seated. He came down on his haunches and placed a hand over Pretchy-Anne's. She blushed, bit her lower lip and shook her head. But he persisted. Finally, she handed me her paper plate to hold. Before getting up she clapped her hands together, rubbing them free of crumbs. Then she let the boy lead her onto the grass, where they danced close against one another.

I sat watching Pretchy-Anne dancing on the flagstones. Her eyes were closed, the right side of her face was buried in the boy's chest. I glanced away, skyward to the stars, and couldn't help but wonder if maybe Pretchy-Anne rejected my request to dance because I was different.

Had she just been being kind to me all this time?

Then I closed my eyes and tried again to picture the quail. Tiny, barely alive. Feather-wrapped creatures that laid scattered on the kitchen counter, near the sink. The birds I imagined stared up pleading to Pretchy-Anne with their glassy eyes.

In my mind, tears swelled in Pretchy-Anne's s eyes as she wrapped her fingers around the quails necks and, one by one, put the birds out of their misery.

When I looked back to where she was dancing, I caught Pretchy-Anne staring at me. Her eyes in the moonlight appeared misted. Quickly, she turned her head.

Suddenly, I was clear about what she meant when she told me she wished the quail were dead before having to clean them.

Regarding My Birth

Submitted to Anderbo on 10/10/09 -- Rejected on 10/11/09
Note: Sorry to say, we will not be using this submitted work, and do wish you the best of luck with it elsewhere.

Regarding My Birth

When she was just a fifteen-year-old girl growing up in the Philippines, my mother worked behind the counter of one of the Grandfather's kiosks, serving beverages to American servicemen. Of the many young men who sought her attentions, it was a quiet young man from Alabama who won her over. Ignoring The Grandfather's warnings, my mother and her American boyfriend eloped to Manila.

From those family members who supported my mother's decision to elope came word that her father -- The Grandfather -- had publicly disowned her. Supporters of the local church and business communities, both of which The Grandfather was a prominent and active member of, were told that my mother was no longer a part of his family.

"Disowned," he told everyone. "Disowned for bringing shame to the family by marrying an American."

Through those lonely and difficult beginnings, my mother and her new husband set up house in a tiny apartment near Clark Air Force Base, where he worked as a military policeman. On the few occasions she ventured away from the base, my mother avoided passing near one her father's many kiosks, which were scattered throughout town.

Often, though, she wished she could return home. At least to visit. She longed for the company of her family. On Sunday mornings she would throw open the apartment windows and listen for the plangent sound of tumbling church bells. She missed her brothers and sisters, how on Sundays in particular, they all gathered around the dinner table, laughing and sharing stories.

Evenings when he came home from the Air Force Base, her new husband frequently found her in tears. Holding her close, the American told her he knew how painful it was not to be able to visit her family. It was like that with him, too. Thank God, he said, they were not truly alone. They had one another.

Three months after the courthouse wedding, my mother gave her husband the wonderful news. She was pregnant. Of course, he was thrilled. With my mother standing at his side, he telephoned his family in America. They were also thrilled.

Every week packages arrived from America, bursting with goods: maternity clothing, baby items, canned American foods.

According to my mother, the pregnancy had helped her overcome the hurdles of loneliness that marriage to a foreigner had brought.

During her sixth month of pregnancy, though, her husband, with his commitment to the military nearing completion, received an ultimatum -- reenlist in the Air Force or transfer back to the states, where subsequently he would be processed out of the military. Knowing that the conflict in Vietnam was blossoming, my mother and her husband both decided it best that he return to civilian life.

But what she didn't know was that her husband would have to go first, leaving her alone to give birth to their child. Before he left, arrangements for support and future travel were handled, promises made.

At the terminal in Manila the young couple said their goodbyes. My mother could not know that as she stood watching her husband board the airplane, she would never see him again.

In the immediate weeks following his departure, alone now in her apartment, my mother thrived on the arrival of the postman, who almost every day handed her an envelope filled with a letter full of money, promises, words of longing and love.

In her replies, my mother often asked when he would return to the Philippines for her. "Soon," he always wrote. "Very soon."

Soon stretched to one month, then another, until just two weeks before the baby was due, my mother responded to a knock on the door and discovered the postman standing out on the porch, holding a registered letter that required a signature.

After smiling brightly, thanking the postman, she tore the envelope open and slid out an official looking document that bore a raised seal.

In the kitchen she sat and read the document. What in the world, she wondered after reading the perplexing letter, is an annulment?

She hurried next door to show the letter to a neighbor girl who had also married an American. There she found out what an annulment was. With her hands shaking she returned to her apartment and once again read the document that destroyed her life.

Closing her eyes, my mother leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor. How was something like this allowed to happen? How could a stroke of a pen in a faraway place so simply bring something to an end? More important, how could he, her husband, after all they'd shared, after all he'd promised, after all she'd given him -- so easily discard their marriage like some piece of garbage?

Apparently her father had been right when he warned her before she eloped that once her American husband returned to the States, his loneliness and longing would subside and he would forget her.

Now my heartbroken mother, churning with feelings of having been used and betrayed, was more alone than ever. Newly sixteen, pregnant, penniless, disowned by her father, and abandoned by her husband. There was nothing left for her to do. So she pulled the kitchen drawer open and removed the sharpest knife she owned. She carried it into the bathroom, sat on the toilet seat, and considered the unthinkable.

Something happened, though, at the instant she held the tip of the blade against her throat. Inside her the baby stirred. Realizing she couldn't take the unborn child's life, my mother released her grip on the knife. She collapsed onto the bathroom floor and burst into sobs.

For four days she remained alone in her apartment, lying in bed, not eating, contemplating the hard realities of her future.

She would be a young woman in the Philippines with an American child. Forcing herself to picture the many young women who worked in her father's kiosks, she accepted the fact that in order to support her child, she would most probably end up resorting to the most shameful trade in the world.

But before any of that could happen, she would have to deal with an issue demanding more urgent attention.

Her marriage having been annulled meant that she would no longer be allowed to give birth to her baby at the American military hospital. So, in a state of either pride, or fear, or shame, instead of seeking forgiveness and help from her family, my mother fled to Manila, where, until she bore her child, she would live with a friend she'd attended Holy Angel Academy with.

On the night the pains began my mother's friend rushed from the apartment to search out the midwife. Two hours later, with the contractions coming closer, the friend returned to the apartment and told my mother the midwife could not be located.

She helped my mother dress and together they boarded a jeepney. The driver rushed them to the nearest hospital. Inside, even with the pains doubling my mother over, she was regretfully informed that without money up front to pay for the procedure, the hospital would not admit her.

Unless . . .

In a small cold room in the hospital's basement that smelled of alcohol, on a bed that was very hard, and under lights that were very bright, my mother labored for fourteen hours.

During the entire time, people bustled through the room; came and went, came and went. Every few minutes the curtain surrounding her bed would be pulled aside and a new group of visitors would file in, surround the bed and, observing intently, the strange visitors would scribbl in their little spiral notebooks and whisper among one another.

When the baby was finally delivered the doctor in charge of the procedure snatched him up before my mother could see or touch him. He swept across the room with the newborn.

Exhausted and humiliated, my mother buried her face in her pillow and cried. She could no longer bear to look directly into the leering faces of all the first year students from a nearby medical college who had been invited to observe their first childbirth.

Prologue:
Hours after giving birth, The Grandfather arrived at the hospital. My mother returned home, forgiven. Several months later she returned to work the counter of one of the Grandfather's kiosk. She met a Filipino-American man, whom she married. Despite my distinctly Caucasian features, my stepfather never treated me as other than his own. As for my mother's first husband -- my biological father, -- all the way up until his passing several years ago, even after I'd come to America, he neither contacted me nor acknowledged me.