"Roselli's Remains" by Roger Pincus K Number 69 Summer/Fall 2014 ALEIDOSCOPE EXPLORING THE EXPERIENCE OF DISABILITY THROUGH LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS KALEIDOSCOPE'S MANY COLORS 2014 1 SUMMER/FALL 2014 NUMBER 69 Contents K ALEIDOSCOPE EXPLORING THE EXPERIENCE OF DISABILITY THROUGH LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS REVIEW EDITORIAL NOTE A New Freedom 4
Gail Willmott Balancing Act 32 Sandy Palmer FEATURED ART Cavewomen 6 Suzanne Kamata FEATURED ESSAY The Intersection of Two Lives: 60 A Woman and a Woodland Snail Gail Willmott Rosellis Remains 20
Roger Pincus The Memory of Elephants 29
Leslie Patterson Paolos Balcony 38
Lawrence L. Emmert FICTION PERSONAL ESSAY Brother 46
Beth Baker Pains Wake 10
Ashley Caveda Braced for Freedom 27
J.D. Chaney Brush Strokes 12
Barbara Ellen Sorensen Escape to Dharamsala 52
John Norris 2 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 63 April Eveing at Lake Ponsitte 50 Sheryl L. Nelms Bradley G. Michael, Purple Flowers, 2011, photography and image manipulation using Photoshop, 11 x 17 Speed On 57 Clare E. Willson Art 51
Nicole Jankowski Panic Attack in Neonatal ICU 58
Jessica Goody Sunlight Beckoned 45
Andrea Rosenhaft Thirteen 18
Tony Gloeggler Finished Symphony 17
Bob Johnston How Many Hail Marys? 19 Some Bells Should Ring 51
Kelly Morris David 37
Sean Lause The Shed and I 49 Joseph R. ONeill Ive Become a Single Note 50 that Cant Be Sung
Martin Altman What is Poetry? 11
Straight to the Heart 11
Denise Fletcher POETRY Glad You Asked 59 Alexandrina Sergio A New Obsession 11
Carol Smallwood 3 STAFF PUBLISHER Gary M. Knuth, President/CEO United Disability Services EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Gail Willmott, M.Ed. MANAGING EDITOR Lisa Armstrong ART COORDINATOR Sandy Palmer
EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS Lynne Came Paul Gustely EDITOR-IN-CHIEF EMERITUS Darshan Perusek, Ph.D.
HONORARY EDITOR Phyllis Boerner KALEIDOSCOPE (ISSN 2329-5775) is published online semiannually. Copyright 2014 Kaleidoscope Press United Disability Services, 701 S. Main St., Akron, OH 44311-1019 (330) 762-9755 Phone (330) 762-0912 Fax email: kaleidoscope@udsakron.org http://www.kaleidoscopeonline.org Kaleidoscope retains non-exclusive world rights to published works for purposes of reprinting and/or electronic distribution. All other rights return to the writer/artist upon publication.
We request credit for publication as follows: Previously published by KALEIDOSCOPE: Exploring the Experience of Disability through Literature and the Fine Arts, 701 South Main St., Akron, OH 44311-1019 Indexed in Humanities International Complete and the MLA International Bibli- ography non-Master List. Listed in Inter- national Directory of Little Magazines and Small Presses, Magazines for Libraries, and The Standard Periodical Directory. KALEIDOSCOPE is a member of the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses (CLMP). Submissions: Email or online submissions preferred.
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ART CONSULTANT Jennifer Wexler Director of Visual Arts VSA, Washington, D.C. MANUSCRIPT REVIEW PANEL Fiction Review Mark Decker, Ph.D. Bloomsburg University Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania Poetry Review Sandra J. Lindow University of Wisconsin-Stout Menomonie, Wisconsin KALEIDOSCOPE, published since 1979, explores the experience of disability through literature and the fne arts. Fiction, painting, photography, pencil sketches, sculpture, poetry, nonfction, book reviews, and theater are all featured in various issues. Unique to the feld of disability studies, this award-winning pub- lication expresses the diversity of the disability experience from a variety of perspectives including: individuals, families, friends, caregivers, and healthcare professionals, among others. The mate- rial chosen for KALEIDOSCOPE challenges and overcomes stereo- typical, patronizing, and sentimental attitudes about disability. 4 A NEW FREEDOM GAIL WILLMOTT EDITORIAL NOTE I ssue 69 is the third online issue of Kaleidoscope. We began publishing themed issues of Kaleidoscope with issue 14 in 1987. After thirty-two years as a staff member and ffty-fve themed issues of Kaleidoscope, I have decided to try something different. I would like to have our summer issues be more open and not tied to a specifc theme. There are two main reasons I have de- cided to try this experiment. The frst, and perhaps most obvious, is that after ffty-fve issues it is becoming more diffcult to develop specifc themes. The second reason is that we receive a lot of good material that does not necessary easily lend itself to a specifc theme and with our limited number of pages, there are many pieces that dont see publication for a long time. As a matter of fact, I have quite often had discussions with various colleagues over the years regarding my tendency to hold on to pieces (some for several years) in the hopes of being able to eventually place them in Kaleidoscope. From time to time, I have been told to get a hold of myself and let go of some pieces, instructions which I follow with great reluctance. One problem with holding onto sub- missions for a long period of time is fnding the author when I am fnally able to include these pieces. Some- times, since most people are not as stationary in the world as I have been, this proves to be an impossible task. However, once in awhile, both the author and I are pleasantly surprised if we manage to make a connection. The authors are often amazed that I have kept a particular piece and am still in- terested in publishing it. While all of the prose pieces in this issue have been held from one to fve years, one story, a historical fction piece called The Memory of Elephants, was sent to us by Leslie Patterson nine years ago and I am pleased to be able to present it to you now. It is a story of the artist Edgar Degas who comes to visit his widowed, nearly blind cousin living in New Or- leans. Degas is frightened because he too is facing the threat of blindness and seems to want to learn from her experi- ence. In addition to The Memory of El- ephants other fction pieces include Escape to Dharamsala, based on the actual experience of a Tibetan monk who travelled, at great risk, with many other companions to visit the exiled Dalai Lama and become exiles them- selves. Rosellis Remains is the story of a former policeman and disabled veteran returning from Afghanistan and facing the challenges of readjustment to civilian life. Paolos Balcony tells the story of a Franciscan monk and artist who contracted polio as a child and is now struggling with post-polio syndrome. Personal essays include J.D. Chaneys Braced for Freedom, the story of his grandparents escape from Russia in the early 1900s. As Jews they were literally feeing for their lives. The mother and her six-year-old daughter who con- tracted polio were forced to make the diffcult journey alone. 5 Gail Willmott Brother by Beth Baker offers her refections on the life of her brother Brad, who is autistic, and the effects his disability has had on both him and his family. Pains Wake by Ashley Caveda is a short piece describing what remains of pain and feeling after a car accident left her legs paralyzed. Brush Strokes is Barbara Ellen Sorensens tribute to her son Bryon who died at the age of 24 due to complications of a seizure, but whose short life was ex- tremely rich and full. Finally, our fea- tured essay, Cavewomen by Suzanne Kamata, who now lives with her family in Japan, describes a visit to family in the United States with her thirteen- year-old daughter Lilia who has cere- bral palsy and is deaf. They confront various accessibility challenges in their quest to visit caves in Chattanooga, Tennessee including a sanctuary for the endangered gray bat. Kamata is deter- mined to make this vacation experience as complete as possible for Lilia. Bradley Michael was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, the challenges of which can be extremely overwhelm- ing at times. However, Michael has a strong desire to create, and through his work his goal is to show the beauty of nature as well as the chaos inherent in his disorder. Of the fourteen poets whose work is featured in this issue of Kaleidoscope some of the poems have again been held for an especially long time. Thir- teen by Tony Gloeggler recalls his experience with a boy who is autistic for whom he has become a substitute father. Panic Attack in Neonatal ICU by Jessica Goody imagines the experi- ence and feelings of a premature infant in a neonatal incubator. Bob Johnstons Finished Symphony recounts the thrill of his frst experience attend- ing a classical music concert. Finally, Kelly Morris two poems How Many Hail Marys? and Some Bells Should Ring tells of her experience at the hands of an abusive father. I hope you will enjoy the variety of personal essays, fction, and poetry pre- sented in this frst non-themed issue of Kaleidoscope in many years. Also, if anyone has suggestions about themes they might like to see developed for our winter issues, please let us know through the website or by email. 6 CAVEWOMEN SUZANNE KAMATA FEATURED ESSAY Theres always one more cavern to explore. Johnny Cash, Another Song to Sing H ere we are in the Southeast on our frst mother-daughter trip. My husband and son are back home in Japan, busy with work, and summer school, and baseball practice. My thirteen-year-old daughter Lilia and I wont be on our own, however. Weve made plans to travel to Tennessee with my extended family. I dont know what we are going to do in Chattanooga. Ive left everything up to my sister-in-law who frst suggested the trip as an alternative to a few days at the beach. Although I love the coast of South Carolinathe salt marshes, the frolicking dolphins, the sweetgrass basket sellers on the side of the roadI concede that its too hot to think about sitting by the ocean. I can imagine the white sand searing the soles of our feet, the sun burning our necks and shoul- ders. It has been one of the hottest sum- mers on record, with the mercury top- ping the hundred degree mark for days in a row. The mountains of Tennessee will be cooler, I think. Plus, my four- teen-year-old nephew, an avid runner whos been on the varsity cross-country team since middle school, wants to run on a particular mountain trail in Chatta- nooga. Our destination is decided. Id been to Chattanooga once before as a child. I remember being on top of Lookout Mountain, peering down from dizzying heights. I recall reports of Japanese tourists whove fallen into the Grand Canyon while trying to get the perfect snapshot, and I have a hor- rible image of my daughters wheel- chair going over a rocky cliff. I hope there are guardrails along the mountain trailstall ones. I also have a memory of garden gnomes in fairy tale settings, something that Im sure my daughter would enjoy. I entrust my sister-in-law with the hotel reservations. I dont mention that we need a handicap accessible room. My sister-in-law knows that my thirteen- year-old daughter Lilia cant walk and that she will need her wheelchair. Sure- ly, she doesnt need to be reminded, al- though come to think of it, my husband rarely thinks to mention our special needs when making reservations. On our last tripto Tokyo Disneyland we had to carry Lilia up the stairs to our second foor motel room. I also remember numerous play dates with mothers of able-bodied kids who promised to help get my daughters wheelchair up hills and staircases, to help my daughter navigate complicated jungle gyms and climbing structures. Helping always turned out to be more arduous than others expected, and more often than not, I was the only one help- ing my daughter up ladders, through tunnels, and down slides while my well-meaning-but-oblivious mommy friends chatted on park benches. But then my parents, who are also going on the trip, assure me that my sister-in-law is working on getting an accessible room. Well, thats one thing I dont need to worry about.
Chattanooga, a town of brick and crepe myrtle backed by hazy mountains, is about a six hour drive from Lexington, South Carolina, our starting point. It takes us a little longer to get there be- cause we make a couple of pit stops one, at a McDonalds where I fnd that the toilet paper and soap dispensers in the accessible bathroom are too high for a wheelchair user to reach. Lilia occupies herself with a thick man- ga and a DVD with Japanese subtitles that we brought along as we cruise down Bobby Jones Highway past trees 7 and trees and trees. About the only things of interest for many miles are the sign indicating the exit for the Laurel and Hardy Museum, and a couple of fawns lazing by the side of the road. In early afternoon, we arrive at the hotel and convene with my brother and his family. Lilia, who in addition to having cerebral palsy, is deaf, manages to converse with her cousins through fashcards that she made in advance and Google Translate. (Thank goodness for Wi-Fi!) My brother has scouted out a cave from which we can watch bats emerge at dusk. We make plans to check it out the following evening. Nickajack Cave was once a refuge for Native Americans, and a hideout for pirates who preyed on travelers who came down the Tennessee River. Later, during the Civil War, it was mined for saltpeter, which is used to make gunpowder. At one time, the cave was even used as a dance hall, and it has been immortalized in song on more than one occasion. A suicidal Johnny Cash allegedly came up with the words for Another Song to Sing inside the cave. YouTube also turned up the tune Nickajack Cave, by singer-songwrit- er Kevin Bilchuk, which is about how Cash found redemption while crawling around on his hands and knees in the cavern. In 1967, the cave was partially fooded after the construction of Nicka- jack Dam, and is now a sanctuary and maternity roost for the endangered gray bat. When I tell Lilia that we are go- ing to view bats, she is scared at frst. She knows bats only from horror mov- ies and vampire stories in her favorite manga. All the same, she is willing to go. My concerns, as usual, are about accessibility. We park at the Maple View Recreation Area near the edge of the reservoir. Luckily, there is a boardwalk lead- ing through trees to the bat-viewing platform. My brother and niece are already waiting when Lilia and I arrive with my parents. My sister-in-law and nephew have gone for a run around the reservoir. We can see their small shapes across the water. Its about an hour till dusk, but already another group of three has staked out a spot on the platforma young woman wearing a ponytail sporting a pink T- shirt, shorts, and a nose ring; another young woman with glasses sitting on the railing, and a bearded guy with a long-lensed camera. The young woman with glasses is holding a net, and Lilia wonders in sign language if its for catching bats. The woman laughs when I inquire about the net. No, its for catching insects. Her sister, the woman with the nose ring, is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Tennessee in the study of bats. She already has a masters degree from the University of Hawaii, where, she informs us, there is only one indig- enous specieslasiurus cinereus, oth- erwise known as the hoary bat. We can see that the cave is cordoned off, and a sign juts from the water at the entrance, declaring it off-limits to human visitors. This, the bat scholar informs us, is to prevent the spread of white-nose syndrome, a disease that threatens the bat population. Once a colony is infected, the disease spreads quickly and has killed at least 95 per- cent of bats at some locations in only two years. As dusk gathers, frefies spark in the trees. Mosquitoes alight on my bare legs. I want the bats to come and eat the bugs. My sister-in-law and nephew re- turn from their run. A family from Chi- cago joins us on the platform, and then a couple of guys and a dog in a boat pull up in front of the cave, the sound of the outboard motor disrupting our peaceful interlude. Their loud voices, twanged with Tennessee accents, blare across the water. Cmon bats, one guy yells impatiently. Like us, they are here to see the gray bats emerge from the cave, but they are hardly respect- ful. They go beyond the sign, into the mouth of the cave, before anchoring just outside and diving into the water. The Ph.D. student is horrifed. She ex- plained earlier, about the special Tencel suits that students wear when entering bat caves, the extraordinary measures to which they go in order to prevent the spread of disease. I hope they get rabies, she snarls. One of the guys swims to shore and climbs up the embankment, then jumps ten feet from the cliff, splashing into the water below. We wonder out loud if this is disturbing the bats. Meanwhile, Lilia keeps asking me what people are talking about. She doesnt quite get this American custom of 8 speaking to strangers. She thinks that we must all know each other. I try to keep her in the fownow were won- dering if there is poison ivy in these woods; now were talking about how those guys in the boat werent supposed to go near the bats; now were talking about how a scuba diver in pursuit of a giant catfsh illegally entered and got lost in Nickajack Cave for 17 hours 20 years ago, and how the cave had to be drained. (The diver, David Gant, thought that his rescuers were angels and became a born-again Christian af- ter the event, which became known as The Bat Cave Miracle.) Finally, there is a speck overhead, and I point to the darkening sky. The bats have begun to swoop and futter above the cave. First, just a few, then there are hundreds of them, a swirl of dark wings. They come diving for insects just above our heads, and then fap again into the treetops. Every night, be- tween April and September, they feast upon thousands of beetles and moths and aquatic insects, devouring up to 274,000 pounds of bugs. Lilia gazes in wonder at the bats, the frefies, the stars in the night sky. When we go back to the car, the board- walk is completely dark. We need a fashlight to fnd our way. Its too dark to sign in the car, but later, Lilia writes in her notebook: Dont go in the cave! Bats! If you touch leaves, you will be itchy! She also writes about the man who went into the cave twenty years ago and couldnt fnd his way back out. The following morning, as we be- gin to drive up to the top of Lookout Mountain, my dad recalls how terri- fed Grandma had been on our frst trip here, over forty years ago. Back then, there had been nothing to prevent our freefall should my dad miss a hairpin curve. Things are different now. There are guardrails. The road is wider. Theres even a Starbucks at the sum- mit, across from the entrance to Rock City Gardens, one of Chattanoogas premier tourist attractions, and home to the garden gnomes I remember from my youth. One path, Fat Mans Squeeze, is too narrow for the wheelchair, so we have to turn back around. We cant fgure out how to get to the Swinging Bridge or the Opera Box Overview, but we do manage to get Lilia to Lovers Leap, from which we can view seven states. Feeling a bit frustrated, I decide to give up on the more inaccessible areas, and take Lilia to the Fairyland Cavern, a cave full of illuminated dioramas fea- turing scenes from Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel, and other well-known fairytales. As a child, I found this cave delightful. As an adult, I cant help thinking that its a bit cheesy, but Lilia, who has been born and raised in the land of Hello Kitty, loves it without a trace of irony, and snaps photos of ev- ery display. At the very least, the dark, damp cave offers respite from the sum- mer heat. We stop by a barbecue joint for lunch before hitting up our next cave on Rac- coon Mountain, which according to the tourist brochure I picked up at a rest stop, is rated number one in the South, with more formations than any other cavern in the region. Is it accessible? I asked my brother earlier. He told me that hed called to inquire. They said there are one hundred steps inside, but no more than ten at a time. One hundred steps? He assures me that he will help carry Lilia. Im feeling a bit dubious, but I fgure that if Lilia can make it up three fights of stairs at school every day by hanging on to the railing, she can probably drag herself up these steps, too. So what if Theres a ramp at the entranceso far, so goodbut we quickly come upon steps. According to The Enchanted Gazette (Gnome News is Good News!), a tourist brochure in the guise of a news- paper, Lookout Mountain, formerly inhabited by Native Americans and site of a major Civil War battle, was frst commercialized in 1924 by business- man Garnet Carter. He established Tom Thumb Golf, the frst ever miniature golf course, on top of the mountain. He was also responsible for Fairyland, a residential community inspired by his wife Friedas interest in European folk- lore. That explains the gnomes. Theres a ramp at the entranceso far, so goodbut we quickly come upon steps. Our group has scattered by now and my wheelchair bearer brother is nowhere in sight. A Rock City em- ployee tells us that to get to the Mother Goose Village, well need to go through a back entrance. We start by exploring the rest of the site. Theres a wide, sloped path going past various fowers and herbs. Lilia likes to take advantage of inclines and coast whenever possible, but I hang on to the handles of her wheelchair. Its a good thing that I do, because I discover that the end of the path drops off into a crevice. 9 she slows down the guided tour? And if my brother wants to volunteer to carry her wheelchair, then fne. Maybe my able-bodied fourteen-year-old nephew will pitch in, as well. against us! If Mammoth Cave can ad- mit wheelchair users, then so can you! What about the Americans with Dis- abilities Act? And what do you mean our tickets are non-refundable? However, I dont want to ruin this fam- ily outing by making a scene, and were already holding up the tour group, im- posing on strangers. When the manager offers to allow us access to the frst cav- ern and give us credit in the gift shop in exchange for our tickets, Im willing to compromise. We have forced the staff to confront our situation. Maybe thats a start. Maybe they will consider ways to make the cave more accessible to wheelchair users in the future. I would like Lilia to be able to see the stalagmites and stalactites, the rimstone pools and fowstone, the so-named Crystal Palace and Hall of Dreams. I would like her to feel the spray of the underground waterfall on her face and to be able to cross the natural rock bridges formed by centuries of min- eral deposits deep inside. But when I imagine the additional construction that would be necessary to make this cave fully accessiblethe concrete and drills and sawsIm not so sure its a good idea. Maybe not everyone should go into this wild place, especially if it would mean desecrating its natural beauty. Maybe like Nickajack Cave, we should let it be, a pure place of mystery. Maybe there are some places that Lilia in her wheelchair, and me with her, can do without visiting. I urge my parents and my brother and his family to go ahead into the cave. Lilia and I wait for our guide, a lanky young man who takes us into the empty frst cavern and shines a fashlight on rock striated like bacon, and a cave- dwelling salamander while giving us the offcial spiel. Its Lilias frst time But when I imagine the additional construction that would be neces- sary to make this cave fully accessiblethe concrete and drills and sawsIm not so sure its a good idea. in such a cave. She likes the sparkle of the quartz, the blue of the salamander. We learn that this dark place is home to a blind species of spider, and also to bats. She takes pictures of various rock formationsa straw, a stalagmite. Our guide lets Lilia hold the fashlight and explore as much as she likes, as long as we dont touch the cave walls. The oil from human skin can hinder the natural fow of water and mineral deposits. When my daughter is satisfed, we go back out into the gift shop, into the light. Lilia goes straight for the stuffed ani- mals on display and picks up a plush gray bat. I discover that, as in the case of Johnny Cash and David Gant, our evening at Nickajack Cave has made something of a convert out of my daughter. Instead of being chiropto- phobic, my daughter is now a bat fan. We get a T-shirt for her brother, and the stuffed gray bat to commemorate our trip. When we are back in Japan, and she begins to tell about our trip, the caves are the frst thing that she mentions. She tells how gray bats few in a funnel up to the sky, how she saw seven states and scenes from fairytales, and how the stone in Raccoon Mountain Caverns sparkled. Kira kira, she signs, her fngers wiggling in the air.
Weve already purchased our non- refundable tickets on-line via my brothers smart phone. We pass by a group of muddy-kneed spelunkers, just back from a guided wild cave tour, and go into the gift shop/reception area. The young guy at the cash register insists that we need a printout of our reserva- tion, and that the cave is not wheelchair accessible. But we called in advance . . . my brother protests. No matter. Whoever talked to my brother, must not know the cave well. We cant take the wheelchair into the caverns. And our tickets are non- refundable. My frst impulse is to launch into a rant. What do you mean this place is inaccessible? My daughter has a right to go into that cave and behold its natu- ral wonders! You are discriminating 10 PAINS WAKE ASHLEY CAVEDA PERSONAL ESSAY S hells from the bottom of the lake pricked without piercing my toes the last day I could feel pains full crescendo in my lower half, before a car accident numbed those nerves. Since that day, Ive had to learn the texture of my feet, the stretch of my pale, thin legs, the smooth expanse of my stomach, the frm curve of my back, and the soft underside of my breasts through the kneading pressure of my fngers, the reassurance of blind hands that my joints are still in place, that my skin remains uncompromised, that the ballpoint pen somewhere on the bed that I now cant fnd, displaced by weight and movement, is not beneath the legs I cant feel, is not scratching, penetrating the fesh that wont warn with the sharp, now undeliverable rise of nature. I know the cold shock of water fow- ing over dangling legs by the involun- tary pull of thigh muscles, so strong I teeter. Ive learned the nuances of my knees, testing them with the pressure of thumbs and fngertips for some change, some indication of something gone awry. At the jerk of a leg spasm, I halt to see the metal lip of the ovens broiler pinning the center of my foot, my toes spread out, stretching refexively from the purple bruise that appears like a birthmark on a strangers body. And sometimes I must stop moving alto- gether, sit like a hunter watching for prey, waiting for some slight tug from within, for strange chills that reverber- ate like music through the walls of my sides, contracting my stomach muscles like an accordion, the after effects of an injury that is no longer painful. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I will never feel it. Rather Im left with the sensations that slip below the surface that I must await to know theyre there. A subtle echo of pain un- released by red alert of able nerves, that unmistakable cry of No, Im hurting. Stop. 11 POETRY CAROL SMALLWOOD
A New Obsession Nothings worse than having another obsession: Pain, depression, poverty are a piece of cake. Post-traumatic stress hits in any profession Leaving one vulnerable with much at stake Pain, depression, poverty are a piece of cake Because from what I read theres no cure, Leaving one vulnerable with much at stake For when theyre triggered one can but endure Because from what I read theres no cure So you must use whatever works on hand For when theyre triggered one can but endure Until free from the sloops of suffocating sand So you must use whatever works on hand While you question your sanity, if reason exists Until free from the sloops of suffocating sand And you can again relax, unclench tight fsts While you question your sanity, if reason exists McDonalds golden arches beckon, embrace And you can again relax, unclench tight fsts As arches are symbols of freedom, wide open spaces McDonalds golden arches beckon, embrace As you fght not to be crushed, defeated As arches are symbols of freedom, wide open spaces You fnd a blue booth and are seated As you fght not to be crushed, defeated. Recalling the obsessions that have come before You fnd a blue booth and are seated While striving, struggling to come ashore Recalling the obsessions that have come before. Post-traumatic stress hits in any profession While striving, struggling to come ashore Nothings worse than having another obsession DENISE FLETCHER
Straight to the Heart The computer chair sits empty now. It was his chair For working on his laptop; Technology was his game, Far be it from me To tell him anything. Sugar beat him down, Gangrene took his leg. It started in the foot And worked its way up Straight to the heart Determined to take him out. DENISE FLETCHER
What is Poetry? Fragments Memories Scraps of the past Thoughts that pass Thru your memory Bank on the way To oblivion
Previously published in Open Minds Quarterly, Summer 2013. 12 PERSONAL ESSAY BRUSH STROKES BARBARA ELLEN SORENSEN Art is everywhere you look for it, hail the twinkling stars for they are Gods careless splatters. ~ El Greco I like dark paintings. ~ Bryon Michael Sorensen W hen my son, Bryon, was a baby, I could not put him down. Even when he grew and grew into a hefty toddler and would scream and pitch fts out of pure spite and obstinance, I was compelled to pick him up and press his hard, determined little body next to my heart. I loved him with a sort of desperation. I loved him when he was in his dark moods and when he was in his light moods. He was mercurial by nature and I knew he was to be my last baby. I had premature births so my ob-gyn ad- vised me not to have more than two babies. So Bryon was, without a doubt, the last child I would ever have. My sons were the frst grandchildren in my huge, extended family, and Bryon became the frst grandchild to die. When he died, at age 24, he broke many hearts. They are still breaking. On a bright, sunny day in October, 2011, my husband and I went to see Bryon. It was the type of day that Bryon lovedcrisp and cool, copper-bright sun careening off highway asphalt, illuminating everything in its perfect path. It was a day much like the day Bryon was borna day of beauty, light, and darkness, all mixed together. On this par- ticular day though, we would not come home cradling a tiny body ripe with life; this day we would leave behind a grown sons body prepped for cremation. In the car, we were quiet as we made our way down the canyon road toward the mor- tuary that was keeping our youngest sons body. Bryon had died just four days earlier from complications of a seizure. He had been suffering from seizures originally brought on by an arteriovenous malformation (AVM) for about fve years. At the mortuary, the receptionist exuded a cheerful nor- malcy, evidently trying to make the best out of our family tragedy. When we were fnally allowed to see our son, how- ever, normalcy became a dream, a surreality that infused every corner of the room where his body lay. The room seemed unnaturally gray with an under painting of white, like brush strokes of the Greek artist, El Greco. I like his [El Grecos] dark paintings, Byron had said to me as we walked through the Prado in Madrid, Spain, seven years earlier. Bryon had lingered in the rooms that displayed these types of paintings. At the funeral home, a single, white sheet covered Bryons body so that only his head and shoulders could be seen. Bryon looked as though he was sleeping. Though the make- up on his face had rendered a natural tone to his skin, the unmistakable signs of bruises were visible across the bridge of his nose. I remember analyzing his face as though it was a rare painting. There are overlayers of color and tone val- ues, I remember thinking. I felt detached, cold. It was clear that Bryon had fipped over onto his face during his seizure. He had smothered himself in his pillow. He was a big guy and his body had fought hard to stay alive. I knew that as soon as we left, the perfunctory cremation would take place and I thought I saw an impatience in the undertakers gestures. Was he trying to push people through the viewing? I watched him and wondered aloud to my hus- band and oldest son, Aaron, Why dont they have a place where the parents can sit in the room and watch and wait as their childs body is burned? Why cant we keep the bones of his body? But my small, immediate family could not answer; they were lost in grief. I busied myself with greet- ing friends. When I fnally got the chance to sit down, I sat with a blank mind and stared at my son, who was not really my son any longer. I remember I asked people to leave the 13 room so that I could sit for a few minutes with him, alone. I tried to feel his spirit, I tried to pray. I tried to speak to him; I called him sweetie. I tried to remain still and feel a presence. But in the funeral home that day, my son was not there. There was just a body beneath a clean, white sheet, and the body that the sheet lightly covered, was not my sons. Bryon loved certain aspects of Catholicism. When my hus- band, my son Aaron, and I went to his house to collect his clothes and sundry belongings, we were surprised to see so many deliberate displays of Roman Catholicism. Next to his bed, on his dresser, there was a white candle. Next to the candle was a string of translucent glass rosary beads. Next to the rosary beads there was an icon of a very young, sweet-faced Mary. Next to the icon there was a prayer card. Next to the prayer card there were medals of saints that Bryon had collected as a student at Sacred Heart of Jesus Elementary School in Boulder, Colorado. Bryon had been baptized and confrmed in the Episcopal Church, yet his heart leaned toward the benevolent fgure of Mary, and the forgiveness of sins espoused by many of the Catholic saints. Bryon had so much love in his heart, that the universe needed him. God needed him, said Drew Carter. One of Bryons dearest friends since middle school, Drew had gone with Bryon to Baton Rouge right after high school gradua- tion to serve in AmeriCorps. I had called Drew one morning to meet me at a local coffee shop. I needed to see Bryons friends; his friends were all part of the inextricable link to his painfully short life. Drew had also been the frst of Bryons male friends to witness one of his seizures. The son of a Jewish man, Drew had prayed over Bryons body at the funeral home like an evangelical pastor. He had placed both his hands on Bryons body, and weeping quietly, he had spoken words and prayers to Bryons soul. When I asked him about it over coffee, Drew could not remember a single thing he had said that day. Drew recognized the enormity of Bryons love of humanity. Bryon would have eventually worked with kids, Drew told me. I saw how he interacted with the school children in Baton Rouge. He loved them and they loved him. Months after he had died, I pulled out a folder full of emails from Bryons year in Baton Rouge. The emails sparkled with energy, excitement, and humor. They were written in what I called Bryons slash-and-burn style of writing no regard for grammar or punctuation. September 21, 2006 Hello mom, please deposit more money and tell my dog I love him how is work going fne here I fnally have an actual 9-5 amazing huh? well anyway hate to pester you for money but as you know I havent had time to get food stamps and i havent gotten paid yet but like i said at the end of this month i get a phone and money so i will become more self-reliant. Tell my dad not to work so hard, is he still enjoying his motorcycle? oh and also when you get a chance give me a list of all the familys email addresses your side of the family obviously with love your sweet Bry Bry. September 27, 2006 . . . my rent is due on the 1st i am going to pay my utili- ties out of my paycheck and hopefully by next month Ill be able to work out a system to set aside the money for rent Ive been making a budget and its defnitely possible with food stamps. i get to go into my classroom today Im teach- ing second graders!!! it will be fun Im a material and lo- gistics man on my team and in the class i will be a student/ teachers aide and a literary tutor. November 28, 2006 Hey mom, i havent had access to a computer in some time but everything is fne and i love you. i get minutes so feel free to use a fantastic invention called a phone. Bryon had a girlfriend, Jennifer, whom he had been dat- ing since he was a sophomore in high school. A year ahead of him in school, Jennifer had left for Colorado Springs to attend college. Willowy and blond, with perfect skin, Jen- nifer was like a small bird that curled on top of Bryons chest when they slept together. I knew this only because once I had inadvertently opened the door to his room. I remember Jennifer opening one sleepy eye to register my shock. They were still dating when Bryon graduated two years later. Bryon came home for Christmas, and it was dur- ing this break that he had his frst seizure. It was January 14 2, 2007, and Jennifer was sleeping over. In just a few days, Bryon would have to fy back to Baton Rouge. At 3:30 in the morning, January 3, I woke to hear Jennifers soft, breathless voice, Mrs. Sorensen, something is wrong with Bryon. My husband and I scrambled from our bed, and rushed downstairs. I had never seen anyone seize before so I wasnt even sure what was happening to my son. Finally, I realized that the blue tint on Bryons face was intensify- ing. Behind me, Jennifer was screaming. My husband rolled Bryon onto his side because it seemed as though he was choking. The seizure only lasted about three minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. I felt as though all of us in that room were foating in some obscure space. We would never again touch the ground with our feet in the same way. Years later, after I had been through many of Bryons sei- zures, I thought of a quote by the art critic, David Davies. Remarking on El Grecos paintings, he had once said: Space is perceived in the imagination rather than misused; light is incandescent, ftful and unreal; colours are pure, lu- minous and unearthly; fgures are elongated, energized and dematerialised. All are illuminated and quickened by Gods Grace. Seizures were a part of Gods grace, too? The moments of a seizure ft perfectly into El Grecos surreal world; there was a light that was shimmering and ftful behind every move- ment during seizure activity. Color was intensifed. This pe- culiar light would return many more times, and remain until the end of Bryons life, unearthly. Bryon spoke of light and sound often in reference to the auras he would have right before a seizure occurred. Once, we were alone in the house together, just he and I, and he felt something, a movement of sound and light. He rushed upstairs to tell me he felt he was about to seize. I made him lie down on my bed and I talked softly to him. Eventually, the feeling of the seizure diminished, and Bryon turned to me and said, We have to take care of each other, Mom. I smoothed his hair and felt as though, through Gods grace, I had just been informed. Now I knew that I could talk my son out of a seizure. Then, as he cried and asked, Why is this happening to me? I held him like he was not my huge, muscled, young man, with wild, lupine-blue eyes, but a little boy. Bryon returned to Baton Rouge a month following his sei- zure. He resumed his teaching role and received his educa- tional award money from AmeriCorps. One day, he showed me all the letters the children had written him after his frst seizure and subsequent cyberknife surgery. There were so many. All of them were addressed to Mr. Bryon, in the formal vernacular of the South: You is my friend Mr. Bryon. Mr. Bryon we had so much fun with you and I hope we see you again and when I see you please please give me some more goldfsh and I love you Mr. Bryon. Mr. Bryon thank you When are you comeing back to these school! Mr. Bryon I miss you Bryon will you come back. Can you come. We all ways like you. The moments of a seizure ft perfectly into El Grecos surreal world; there was a light that was shimmering and ftful behind every movement during seizure activity. Mr. Bryon You is my friend. I like you Mr. Bryon. You is my best teacher. Dear Mr. Bryon I know that we are going to have fun and we is going to have a pinick outside and you help us do our homework and I thank you. For helping our children and teacher to get done with the work. Each time I read these letters, I feel what I think is Gods quickening, but it is not an incandescent feeling. There is no grace, no growth, no expedience. There is only my empty heart and its resounding thrum of despair: I have lost my youngest son, my last baby. There will be no others after him. I am the mother of one child now. * * * An autopsy report is a strange item to receive in the mail. The wording is succinct to the point of being blunt. I do not know how else it could be. It reads: I. Cystic, gelatinous, remotely hemorrhagic lesion of left frontal lobe of brain: Seizure disorder Vascular malformation or capillary hemangioma with recent bleed 15 II. Mild pulmonary edema III. Borderline cardiomegaly IV. Toxicology: Blood drug screen: positive for cannabinoid Ethanol, whole blood: none detected Dilantin: less than 3.0 ng/ml (10-20) CONCLUSION: Based upon the history and autopsy fndings, it is my opin- ion that Bryon M., a 24-year-old white male, died as the result of his seizure disorder from the lesion in his left fron- tal lobe of the brain. The manner of death is natural. Pathologist: James Wilkerson My son died because he had failed to take his seizure medi- cation as prescribed by his neurologist. He just decided one day that he did not want to take them any more; he did not like the way they made him feel. On the anti-seizure meds, he was often cranky, violent, sleepy, and/or irrational. How- ever, he might have come out of that one grand mal and realized that he must take his medication. But, you know how Bryon was. Drew said to me as I picked at a cin- namon roll. He was hard-headed. He thought he was too strong to ever die. Then, I asked Drew the question that I asked many, many people: Do you think he knew he was going to die? Do you think he wanted to die? Drew looked at me and because he had been weeping through much of our conversation, his eyes were very red, No, he said. No. Bryon wanted to live. Months after Bryons death, I typed his name in a search engine. To my surprise, his name popped up under the AVM Survivors Network website. As I read through the posts, Drews words resonated in my heart. Bryon had responded to a forum question about switching medications. It was dated May 3, 2010, just fve days before his 23rd birthday. For me switching medications is a huge deal. Just the other day I caught a seizure by the tail with an ativan, with slow steady breathing and some relaxation my aura faded and I came back down to earth. My neurologist is switching me from dilantin to zonisimide. I know that zonisamide is a second generation medication and I am eager to be on a full dosage. The real shitty part is that I do not have health in- surance and therefore sometimes receive a generic form of dilantin that does not work at all. Case and point the seizure I abruptly caught by the tail was defnitely caused by the generic dilantin. So hopefully zonisamide will work like a charm because in the process of switching I am taking so many pills and they do not seem to work quite right. The neurologist wants me to keep an even keel with my frustra- tions with life and school and everything else but I try and then my medication does not work. With luck after I make the switch to zonisamide I will not have trouble getting dif- ferent forms of zonisamide and therefore will not have these darn seizures. Health, love and happiness to everyone. -Bryon He just decided one day that he did not want to take them any more; he did not like the way they made him feel. On February 27, 2012, I fnally realized I should write something about Bryon. I had joined the 5,000-member AVM survivor group and had just lurked. I think I was try- ing, in some way, to disbelieve his death. I was receiving good-natured and hopeful posts from all the people who suffered from AVM-related seizures. They were living full and happy lives! So I wrote with trepidation, because I knew responses would inevitably come fooding in: I just wanted to thank everyone who knew my son on this website. He died this past October, the day before Hallow- een. He stopped taking his meds because they made him feel so bad. However, he had a major rebound seizure that killed him. Please, please do not stop taking your meds cold turkey! My Bryon was the love of our lives and we miss him terribly. He had such a big heart and was a loving, good soul. Thank you to all of his friends on this site! The responses are still trickling in and they delight and soothe me. At the same time, I know someday Bryons memory within this small cohort will cease. Then, I think I will truly be bereft. For me, the sorrow will never end. * * * Bryons dark painting is fnally complete. His image comes to me in dreams, but he is never fully grown; he is always still a child. In one dream he stood across a street, hold- ing a balloon. He was telling me something. What I heard was: Over and over again, Mom. Over and over again. I wondered about this for a while, until I reconciled it with 16 my spiritual belief. I believe we are all born again through love. This is as simple as I can explain it. When I think of seeing Bryon again, I am comforted not only by the words of the dream: Over and over again, Mom. But also by the words Bryon said to me in the Prado as he examined the phantom-like fgures of saints, angels, counts, and animals all swirling about with no frmament above or below them: I like the dark paintings. I know now that he saw himself in those paintings. He had aged quickly, speeding through time that carries darkness and light, simultaneously. I be- lieve Bryons life was accelerated because, like Drew said, the universe needed his gigantic, loving, child-like heart. When he died, he had experienced deep love for a young woman, had traveled extensively, had hundreds of friends that spanned several continents, had worked hard, and he had recognized that beauty and art surround human beings. As I was searching for the perfect readings to incorporate into the funeral service, I found a poem Bryon had written: Looking Out the Window Looking out the window, I saw things for what they were. Each blade of grass stood out among its green peers and it seemed as if the whole outside was part of some giant painting and without that one stroke it would be imperfect. Yet who says imperfection isnt beautiful? The almost citrus-colored lighting accented every shadow and dimple on the earthen foor. Everything in it was endowed with eternal beauty in my eyes. Bryon had once said to me: Mom, my neurological prob- lem is like having a bomb in my headI could die at any moment. I denied this vehemently. I even laughed. I told him he would not die if he just stayed on his medications. This was not entirely true. For this reason alone, I am happy that Bryon did all of the things that he was not supposed to do. Bryon engaged in top-roping, worked construction, lifted weights, and romped with his new puppy, alone. These were all marked MUST NOT DO by his neurolo- gist. Bryon played even in the midst of discord and the un- certainty of seizures. I have tried to be angry with Bryon for not taking his medi- cations. I have tried to be angry with him for breaking our hearts. But when I begin to speak to him, I fnd myself call- ing him sweetie, and honey. It was always hard to stay mad at Bryon. He never was the type of guy who paid much attention to scripture, or lists, or reprimands. He was busy laughing and loving. He was busy with the short life he had been given and great splatters of color trailed behind him, wherever he went. K KALEIDOSCOPE Magazine has a creative focus that examines the experience of disability through literature and the fne arts. Unique to the feld of disability studies, this award-winning publication expresses the diversity of the disability experience from a variety of perspectives including: individuals, families, friends, caregivers, educators and healthcare professionals, among others. The material chosen for KA- LEIDOSCOPE challenges and overcomes stereotypical, patronizing, and sentimental attitudes about disability through nonfction, fction, poetry, and visual art. Although the content focuses on aspects related to disability, writers with and without disabili- ties are welcome to submit their work. Double spaced, typewritten 5,000 word maximum Electronic submissions preferred Email submissions accepted at kaleidoscope@udsakron.org or online at kaleidoscopeonline.org. Call for submissions Gail Willmott, Editor-in-Chief ALEIDOSCOPE Visit us online for future themes 17 BOB JOHNSTON
Finished Symphony
My frst twenty years Id never heard an honest-to-God live symphony, and then I started at the top: Koussevitsky and his Boston combo, Carnegie, Wolfgangs G minor. When those frst notes hit, they lifted me out of my seat, foated me somewhere above the proscenium, where I stayed for the next two weeks. I can still hear those notes. The slow movement was from Brahms. The violins spun it out into a single white flament that looped over my head and back to the stage. I tried to hold onto it, but it slipped through my fngers. Instead of a minuet we had Ellington. This was early Ellington, before he got delusions of grandeur. The mood was indigo and the stage rocked in rhythm while the brass growled, the A-train rumbled under the auditorium and I danced in the aisle until they put me out. The last movement capped the climax with Mahlers Resurrection Symphony. Naturally, it was too loud, too long, and out of tune. The violins begged for mercy, and the concertmaster took a swig of water or possibly gin. The notes heaped up in weary piles, waiting for the fnal molto ritardando. It ended, with no applause and no encores. The audience was long gone. I sat alone in the darkened hall, waiting for the lights to come up. They never did. The conductor disappeared in a puff of smoke and the weary musicians fled offstage. I clapped and clapped for an encore, anything to break the silence.
Previously published in Rattle, Vol. 12, No. 2, Whole No. 26, 2006. POETRY 18 POETRY TONY GLOEGGLER Thirteen Three states away, Joshuas celebrating a birthday. All last week he read social stories trying to learn what cake, lit candles, pizza, party hats and gifts are supposed to mean to him. I play the jumpy email video, watch as he slides into a booth, shakes salt into his palm, tilts his head sideways and, like always, his eyes light up as crystals pour from his fngers like fairy dust. He makes his infamous shrieking sound when the teacher hands him a hat and he doesnt stop screaming or pounding the table until she stuffs it in the trash. A few kids slide in next to him, across from him and take turns slapping, grabbing his hand in different secret ways and Joshua doesnt start howling, doesnt try to hide under the table or yell for his moms blue van. He just covers his mouth with his hand as he laughs so hard that goose bumps start to crawl down my arm. Patiently he waits for the pizza, blows the candles out, takes a slice, nibbles counterclockwise around its steaming edges, drinks half a Snapple and then rips his gifts open. When I visited last winter, he spent nearly four hours repeating Tony airport bye and I wasnt sure he knew me until the next morning when he placed his face close to mine. He put his fnger in his mouth, tried to make that popping sound I showed him the frst time we met and I remembered how hed jump with joy, crumble into a soft, giggling, rolling-across-the-foor-ball every time I did it. Hed grab my fnger, lift it to my lips and say Again Tony again. Later, he sprawled across my lap, let me rub his feet as he turned pages of shiny alphabet books, slid his fngers over the illustrations like he was speed reading Braille. At thirteen, hes bigger, stronger. He throws clothes, magazines across his bed, desk and foor like any teenager and he plays his MP3 endlessly. Still he listens to the same six Sesame Street jingles over and over. Recently hes pulled hair, torn shirts, bit teachers and attacked Helen in the middle of the night once. She never told me how badly he hurt her, but shes having trouble sleeping and feels more overwhelmed than usual. Hes started on a low dose of medication, but she cant tell how much its helping and no one knows about long term side effects. I want to book an early morning fight, drive over the hills, ride to the rescue like John Waynes cavalry. I want to remember how much I miss and love both of them, forget the part of me thats relieved I no longer feel guilty for not spending every hour of every day trying to cure his autism, that even if me and his mom still loved each other the way we swore we would, hunkered down close and deep in our bunkers, there may never be a way to make a place in this world for Joshua or either one of us.
Previously published in the authors book, The Last Lie, NYQ Books, June 2010. 19 KELLY MORRIS
How Many Hail Marys? Forgive me, Father, for someone has sinned. Never mind who; I will do the penance. It has been seventeen years since my last confession and then I may have lied out of shame or pride. Here is the truth and I know it will not set me free: My fathers sins were in his hands and he left them imprinted on my skin. Those hands broke fesh and bone and soul, and I am left with open fractures that may never heal. My mothers sins were those of omission. Her hands are clean but not her heart. My sins are in my marrow, bone-deep and viscous. They swim in the cerebral-spinal fuid that cushions my mind inside my skull. If we are all sinners, why is there such shame in sinning? How many Our Fathers until I am clean? How many Hail Marys until I am whole? Lord knows, Ive already prayed. 20 ROSELLIS REMAINS ROGER PINCUS FICTION R oselli wheeled himself to the edge of the ramp and relaxed his grip. Smooth rubber tires brushed against his fngertips as he descended. The chair landed on the sidewalk with just the slightest bump. After a few breaths, his lungs felt better, cleaner. Even on a sticky September afternoon like this, when the air hung heavy with automobile exhaust, it was much better outside than in the veterans home, which stood behind him, the blinds in every window shut tight against the suns strong rays. He placed a hand above his eyes. It looked as if he might be trying to home in on something in the towns modest sky- line. But he was simply creating a bit of shadow to fend off the suns glare for a few seconds while his eyes adjusted. He lowered his hand, still squinting, the paleness of his freshly shaved face fully exposed to the brightness of the afternoon. If you examined Rosellis face carefully, with its lines and scars and hard expression, a face that looked older than its twenty-eight years, if you really looked at him, you prob- ably would be able to gather some idea of who he had been. But hardly anyone looked at Roselli that way anymore. He planned to take himself to Main Street and from there to the Yorktown Alley Pub for a bite to eat. With luck, he would arrive before the evening rush and have a chance to talk to Amy. The sun beat down on him as he pushed his way uphill along the sidewalk, but he didnt sweat. The wind cooled him off and ruffed his thick hair. Hed let it grow so he wouldnt resemble a former cop or infantryman. He was someone new now, or at least someone different, a civilian who no longer chased criminals down the street or exchanged automatic weapons fre with ragged, lethal men in the mountains of Afghanistans Nurestan province. He passed a barber shop and a diner as the incline steep- ened. The veins in his forearms bulged as he turned his wheels forward. He wondered, as he pushed the chair hard, how what was left of his body would hold up without shins, calves, or feet. The wind billowed his shorts and caressed his knees and the stubs beneath them, the false beginnings of his missing lower legs. The stubs completed themselves as smoothly round, free of edges or bumps, weirdly perfect in their curvature. A rocket-propelled grenade and the dili- gent work of surgeons had left him this way, maimed and perfected.
A strong gust blew and Roselli stopped the chair. He held still, closed his eyes, and focused on the wind. He felt it wash over him, beginning at his stubs. This reassured him, for the moment, that what was left of him wasnt disappear- ing. The doctors told him that the numbness that sometimes invaded his knees was normal and harmless, but their words werent enough: he needed the sensation of the wind against his knees to feel whole, or as whole as he could. As the gust tapered off, he opened his eyes and started pushing with renewed strength.
Brightly dressed Sunday crowds flled both sides of Main Street. Roselli stayed in the right lane of pedestrian traffc, careful not to wheel too fast, not to run into anyone. Parents pushing strollers, pretty girls in sandals, and teenage boys in baseball caps all passed by. Some of them looked down 21 at him and promptly averted their eyes. Others stared, and from time to time someone accidentally bumped his chair. He wanted to be able to move along the street comfortably, to enter a store spontaneously like anyone else. But in the crowded shops, the stares, bumps, and whispers of excuse me rained on him even more relentlessly, and his move- ments were even more confned. So he continued along the sidewalk. He felt a thump on the left side of his chair. A heavy bag hanging from a shoulder strap had struck him. The bags owner, a middle-aged man with black-rimmed eyeglasses, asked Roselli to excuse him, then darted away before Roselli could respond, weaving through the crowd while clutching the bag under his arm remorsefully. The man was nervous, and even seemed afraid, but Roselli knew he wasnt, not really. He recognized real fear and knew it couldnt be shaken off by a few quick strides on a sidewalk. He had seen fear up close, in the widening eyes of a drug dealer looking at the barrel of Rosellis Glock. He had even heard it, in the screams of a Taliban fghter hed shot to pieces. No one on the force or in his unit had caused as much fear as Roselli, and there were times hed been told to let up. He had saved so many lives, though, in this towns dirty alleys and in Afghanistans sun-drenched landscape of reddish-brown rocks and pristine dust, that no one ever came down on him too hard. A round-faced girl of about six walked past him slowly, holding her mothers hand. Her blond hair was gathered under a barrette. She looked directly into Rosellis eyes and then at the rest of him, and at the air below his fapping shorts. A tiny gasp escaped her mouth and she buried her face in her mothers dress. Roselli looked away and shiv- ered. The shivering continued, and at the corner of York Street and Main, it worsened. It was a full case of the shakes. He slowed the chair to a stop immediately next to the Farm- ers and Mechanics bank. People streamed passed him, no longer appearing as individuals but as a babble of color and sound and movement, their particularity muted but their raw presence intensifed. Rosellis jaw trembled, his hands did the same, and his mouth dried up. His breath tasted foul with fear. He wanted to rise from the wheelchair and fnd a safe place. This was much more frightening than Afghanistan, where what threatened him was tangible and he and his M-16 could fght back. He missed his M-16. The Glock he had used back on the police force felt like a toy in comparison. It was registered to him as a civilian now and rested snugly inside his jacket with his pills. He looked down, focusing on a bottle cap on the sidewalk, steadying himself enough to turn the chair right onto York Street. He made another right into a quiet, wide alley, where he pulled out the bottle of anti-anxiety medicine the VA psychiatrist had prescribed for him. He rushed two of the one milligram pills into his mouth, swallowed them, then took another. He closed his eyes and sat motionless, wait- ing. Quickly his tension subsided. His heart slowed down and moisture returned to his mouth. A chemically induced calm took hold of him. He had skipped lunch and the medi- cine worked fast. Soon, he felt even better than calm. He pushed his wheels along effortlessly, coasting down the slight slant of the al- ley. He barely felt the chair roll over the seams in the con- crete; bumps came to him only as muffed sound. The pub was coming up on the right. It was a favorite haunt from his days as a cop, and hed been back more than a dozen times since coming home at the beginning of summer.
As he approached the pub, his wheels squeaking, he heard a shout from the narrow loading area that ran off the alley to Main Street, a shadow-covered ribbon of asphalt that ac- commodated small delivery vehicles. A tiny, frail man in torn jeans and a plaid fannel shirt emerged from behind a dumpster, yelling incoherently, mainly cursing. He dragged a flthy brown sack along the ground and walked, slowly and with a slight limp, toward Roselli, who recognized him. He had arrested the man a few times. Chops, he was called, for reasons Roselli didnt know. Chops was a perpetual disturbance, especially in jail, where he kept other guests awake. On the streets, people just avoided him. No, you get out of here, Chops said to Roselli. I dont need no motherfucking cripple to compete with. Its all right, Roselli said. Chops shuffed closer, his neck bent forward, his eyes moving rapidly, left to right, up and down. Dont be telling me its all right either, said Chops. I aint been taking in nothing lately as it is. He pointed at an 22 aluminum bucket back near the dumpster with a few dol- lar bills in it. People see you, theyll give you their extra cash. Go on somewhere else or Ill kick your ass out of that chair. Roselli smiled. The anti-anxiety medicine cruised his body at peak levels; besides, he knew Chops was harmless. No problem, he said. He pointed to the pub. Im going in there. I wont take away any of your business. Chops tilted his head dubiously to the right. His yellow eyes glowed. As a matter of fact, Roselli added, heres a donation. He reached into a pocket of his shorts and held out a dollar. burger and the fries and the Budweiser tasted better tonight than they ever had. Roselli knew this was at least partly be- cause of the medicine.
He ordered another Budweiser and watched SportsCenter highlights on the wide fat-screen television behind the bar. More customers entered the pub and some of the regulars shook hands with him as they arrived. A few knew him from before; others knew him as the ex-cop whose legs had been blown off in Afghanistan. Some of them stopped to talk about the stretch run of the baseball season or who would beat the spread in next weeks NFL games.
The pub wasnt too busy yet, and Amy came over. She sat down across from him and folded her hands together on the table. She smiled and asked how things were going. The steam from the kitchen had put a sheen of sweat on her face, giving her a pleasant glow. She and Roselli had firted with one another back before the war, when hed come to the pub, checking on her when she worked a late shift. She seemed more serious these days. Roselli felt uneasily re- sponsible for this.
Hey, she said. I asked how things are going. She squeezed his right forearm gently, the warmth of her hand radiating through his sleeve. Roselli smiled back but with- drew his arm. Things are good, he said. He told her how Chandler, his former partner on the force, had paid him a visit earlier in the day. He didnt mention the many awkward silences the visit had included or how relieved hed been when Chandler left. He let her know how hed been starving when he got to the pub, and how the burger had hit the spot. And you? Hows school? Good, she said. Classes are keeping me busy. She laughed when he asked whether her accounting texts were giving her headaches, and whether she really liked crunch- ing all those numbers. Yes, she answered, she did; she liked it when assets and liabilities balanced out. You should try it, she said, teasing him back. No thanks. He smiled and raised his palms in surrender. Not me. Okay, then maybe something else. She had been bring- ing up this something else during his last few visits. She meant his future, his plans, what he wanted to do next. Hed always changed the subject, or if he didnt, shed change it for him. But now she drew her mouth into a straight, serious line. She wasnt going to change the subject, he sensed, and she wasnt going to let him change it, either. She had been bringing up this something else during his last few visits. She meant his future, his plans, what he wanted to do next. Chops snatched the bill. All right then, he said, turning away. Mans all right! he shouted up toward Main Street, where no one could hear him above the bustle of cars and people on foot. He hobbled back to the dumpster, bellowing more curses. He put down his sack against the wall, then sat on it. The sky began to darken. Roselli wheeled himself up the ramp to the pubs front door. He pulled the doorknob hard with his right hand while pushing the left wheel of the chair, which crossed into the doorway. He turned both wheels forward a few more inches, just in time to avoid the doors backswing. The smell of fried onion rings and breaded fsh and ciga- rette smoke mingled in the pubs cluttered air, undisturbed by the slow-turning ceiling fans. To Rosellis right, steam and sizzling from the grill fltered out of the kitchen, which was visible just past the bar. Amy was behind the bar, emptying ash trays and putting down coasters. She smiled at him and walked over to his usual table, then pulled a chair away to make room for his wheels. He thanked her and ordered a half-pound cheese- burger and fries, with a Budweiser from the tap.
He devoured his meal, the charred exterior of the burger a delight to his tongue. His stomach warmed. He had always loved red meat, had practically lived on it as a kid. The 23 Sure, he said. With his right thumb and forefnger, he lift- ed a packet of sugar from the top of the stack in the metal caddy and pushed the granules around. Im going to come up with something else. Its just a little tough, though. Right, Roselli said. He sipped his beer. Insurance. The fatness of his voice matched his expression, and several seconds of silence passed. There are other possibilities, Amy said. Maybe you could go back to the force. Help solve cases. Help question the guys who are brought in. Roselli looked at her skeptically. You can still be a good cop, she added. No, Roselli answered evenly. I never was a good cop. I was a bad cop. He smiled now, and a bit of his old feeling came back. Amy shrugged. No one can throw punches forever, she said. At some point, youd probably want to switch to good cop anyway. Roselli laughed. Maybe, he said. But not now. Def- nitely not now, he thought. Amy shook her head, smiling again. He hoped she was let- ting the subject go. Whatever you decide to do, she said, youll be great at helping people. Even if you insist on being a badass while doing it. You really believe that? Roselli said, chuckling. That I can help people? He raised his hands above his wheels demonstratively. Sure, she said. Anyone who knows you would believe it. Her tone was casual, as if she were saying something obvious. Roselli wondered where the certainty of her belief came from. He woke up every morning in a state of disbelief about how the smallest task required the greatest effort, how hard it was to use the bathroom, to shave, to get dressed, to move from one present moment to the next, too drained to think about the future. Amy kept watching him. Thanks, he told her fnally.
He knew shed have to get back to work soon. Hey, he said, why dont we catch a movie when your shift is done? He was surprised to hear these words come out of his mouth. Over at the Colonial, he added, gesturing with his thumb in the direction of the old theater a few blocks away. If youre free. Amy shrugged. No one can throw punches forever, she said. At some point, youd probably want to switch to good cop anyway. Why? she asked quietly. Why is it tough? He looked at her and shrugged. Im just not sure what to do. A lot of the things someone in my situation can do in- volve sitting. He spoke the last word sharply. Sitting, he repeated. At a desk. Ive never been much for sitting at a desk. He took a breath. The things Ive done have all been out- side. He fipped the sugar packet back onto the table. And Ive always been able to see the results of what I do right in front of me. Amy unclasped her fngers and placed her hands on the table, close to Rosellis. Her long, light brown hair with its layers of wavy curls framed her face asymmetrically, pulled behind her left ear but hanging forward over her right. She had a few tiny freckles on each cheek that Roselli had never noticed before but that nevertheless reminded him of some- thing, took him back to the times before the war when hed kidded with her and she would blush or laugh hard and let him buy her a drink when her shift was over. There are all kinds of things you can do that would let you keep moving, she said. Where you could help people out, too. Like what? He leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. Who could I help? A tinge of bitterness pushed its way into his question. Plenty of people, Amy said. You could go into insur- ance. You could visit people whose houses have burned down or whove been hurt in an accident. Go out and meet them. Help fx their problems. 24 Id like that. She stood from the table and smiled. What do you want to see? Pick something, she said. She squeezed his arm again, her fngers still warm. They agreed to meet in front of the movie house at nine- ffteen, and Amy walked over to another table where two customers had seated themselves. Roselli looked into the kitchen and gave a salute-wave to Mel, the pubs owner, who smiled and waved back from behind the bar. Roselli took a breath and felt a warmth spread inside him, a different kind than the one that had accompanied the burger. It was a feeling he hadnt experienced since coming home. He fnished his beer and watched the crowd thicken. He didnt recognize any of the customers fowing through the door now, bumping into each other, then jamming to- gether near the bar and in the pubs small foyer, waiting in a messy semblance of a line for tables to become available. Roselli felt his medication begin to wear off. His stomach futtered a little. He closed his eyes and sought distraction by picturing Amy still sitting across from him, recalling the feeling of her fngers as she touched his arm, then imagin- ing the two of them at the Colonial, both seated quietly, his awareness of her next to him cutting through the theaters darkness. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. A big man, about Rosellis age, stood a few feet away. He wore a leather jacket zipped only at the bottom and looked at Roselli and his table. The woman on his arm did the same. They separated themselves from the congestion by the pubs front door and hovered nearer to him, like Christ- mas shoppers closing in on a parking space at the mall. The mans eyebrows were tensed into a hard expression as he surveyed Rosellis plate, clean except for some grease and a few spots of ketchup. Looks like this guys about done, he said, more loudly than necessary, nominally addressing the woman. Roselli thought about ordering a cup of coffee, returning the mans scowl with a nod and a smile, saying something like, Busy night, huh? But the futters in his stomach became more insistent and severe, as if hed swallowed something unstable. He needed fresh air. He calculated his tab in his head and decided to pay without waiting for the check. He placed the cash on the table and secured it with his empty beer glass. A hand touched his shoulder from behind, and he started. It was Amy. She knelt to bring her face down close to his so she could be heard above the crowds rising din.
Im glad I caught you, she said. Mel is insisting that I work late. He says its too busy for me to leave at nine. Sure, Roselli said. He lifted his right arm and gestured toward the crowd. I can see why. But even as he spoke, he felt the disappointment sink in, another ingredient added to the cauldron of anxiety inside him. Roselli took a breath and felt a warmth spread inside him, a differ- ent kind than the one that had accompanied the burger. Is this table open? The man in the jacket now stood at the spot behind where Amy had been sitting earlier, his jaw jutting out. His thick fngers rested on the top of the chairs curved back. His girlfriend stood next to him. He wasnt as big as Roselli had been. Roselli knew the look, recognized how quickly the tough veneer could be melted away when confronted by someone tougher. It is, said Roselli. I was just leaving. He broke eye con- tact with the man. Are you all right to get through this jam? Amy asked, giv- ing a quick nod toward the crowd. Yeah, said Roselli, quietly. He turned the chair until he was perpendicular to the standing customers lining one end of the bar to the other. Excuse me, he said. The crowd let him squeeze through. He didnt look up at any of them. The temperature outside had dropped considerably, and the sudden chill and change of scenery made Roselli shiver. He grabbed his tires for a moment to steady himself. His breath fogged the air and he zipped up his jacket. The rush of patrons entering the pub had ended just as hed left. The alley was as quiet as it was cool; even the buzz of Main Street had eased. Its all right, he said in a whisper as he wheeled his chair slowly toward York Street, taking in the relative peace. Its quiet out here, no crowds. Its wide open. Everything is wide open. But his heart began to race. Its all right, he said again. This had been a good night. It was all good. Like hell it was, some other part of him said. Like hell. He chastised himself for putting Amy on the spot. What was she going to do, say no right away? Sure, she had to work late. Sure she did. 25 Roselli shook all over. Then the sweating started abruptly, quickly soaking his back and chest. He zipped his jacket open, desperate for a breeze that would dry him off. First too cold, now too hot. He had been so comfortable at the pub, until the end. Had it all been just a buzz from his pills? He heard a shrill cry. God-damn! Chops roused himself from the ground by the dumpster and limped towards him. I knew youd fuck me up! he shouted. I just knew it! The little man stood in front of Rosellis chair and looked down at him. All them people lining up to get in, he said, waving an arm toward the pub. And none of them give me a dime.
Roselli looked at the ground. And you know why? Leave me alone, Roselli said, still looking down. He gripped his tires and took a hard, shaky breath. Ill tell you why. Because of you! Chops poked a bony fnger into Rosellis chest. They knew you was in there and they kept their money in their pockets until they got inside and gave it to you! Rosellis chest stung where Chops had poked him. People, he told himself, didnt do this to him. No one did, not some- one like Chops, and not the hard guy in the pub. The guy with the girlfriend. This was not something he could stand for. Get away from me, he said. Anger mixed with his fear. Ohhh, no, said Chops, bending his neck forward, coming face to face with him. Not so fast. Let me see what they give you. You give me half, cripple. Give me half and well call it even. He reached inside Rosellis jacket. Rosellis left hand, as if moving on its own, darted for- ward and grabbed Chops by his collar. He breathed hard once, then twice. The second breath came more easily and the third felt deep and healthy, reminding him of how hed breathed during a frefght in the mountains or in the rough neighborhoods in the town, his adrenaline at full tilt. He squeezed Chopss frayed collar inside his fst, dug his knuckles into Chopss throat, and yanked. The wheelchair rattled as Chopss face collided with the left post support- ing the backrest. He kept a tight grip on Chopss collar, then brought him forward and shoved him away as hard as he could. Chops few backward and landed on his rear, hard. Roselli smiled.
Chops struggled to stand. He rose slowly, his movements spasmodic, as if his limp had intensifed and spread to all his limbs. He touched his face, saw the blood on his hand, and hurled a stream of expletives at Roselli before charging him. Shut up, said Roselli. He felt calm, like himself. His old, real self. No more shakes or sweating. Maybe this was the medicine he needed. Roselli caught Chops with his left hand again, absorb- ing most of the shock from the collision. The wheelchair backed up only about a foot. He took hold of Chopss collar and pulled him down until the foreheads of the two men touched. Chops cursed and tried to get loose, failing his fsts ineffectually into Rosellis upper arms. Roselli could do whatever he wanted with Chops nowpunch him out with a right hand, head-butt him. He reached his free hand into his jacket and found his Glock. His palm and fngers eased around it. He pressed the barrel against Chopss left temple. Put your hands on the back of your head and stay still, he told him. His voice was ice. Chops obeyed. Shit, man, let me go, he said in a faint, raspy whisper. You can keep all of it. Just let me go. Shut up, said Roselli. He felt calm, like himself. His old, real self. No more shakes or sweating. Maybe this was the medicine he needed. He pulled the trigger slightly, just enough to release the safety on the gun. Keep your Glock cocked, as theyd said back on the force. Did you know Im a war hero? he asked Chops. He watched the beads of sweat squeeze out of the pores of the little mans leathery skin, just above where the Glocks bar- rel pressed into him. Thats right, Roselli thought. Your turn now. No man, I didnt. I didnt know. Just let me go, all right? I wont mess with you no more. 26 Roselli looked into Chopss eyes, saw red lines in the yel- lowed, watery orbs, and felt the vibrations in his armnot his own trembling, but Chopss. It was different to feel it, different than just watching him shake. But he also felt the steel of the Glocks trigger, smooth and cool against his forefnger. It pleaded for him to squeeze it. He pushed the end of the barrel harder into Chopss head. Chops closed his eyes and his trembling grew worse. Please, man. The rasp was barely audible now. Roselli breathed in, gathering his resolve. At that same mo- ment, Chops exhaled a long breath of stale air. Roselli rec- ognized the smellit carried the distinctive, acrid favor of the fear hed tasted in his mouth on Main Street a few hours ago. It was still there when Roselli took his next breath. His right hand began to shake while it pressed the barrel of the Glock into Chopss temple, and Chops shook even harder as a result. They both trembled violently for several seconds longer, or maybe several minutes longer. Roselli wasnt sure how long hed been shaking when he fnally let go of the trigger. The guns safety reengaged. Roselli relaxed his grip on Chopss collar and slowly uncurled the fngers of his left hand. He removed the gun from Chopss temple, revealing a circular imprint, a temporary tattoo from the Glocks barrel. He put the gun back in his jacket. Chops, no longer in Rosellis grasp, still didnt move, and kept his hands on the back of his head. Roselli backed up a few feet, but Chops remained bent forward. Roselli nodded at him. Stand up, he said. Chops complied, tentatively, and took a few small steps backward.
Take it easy, Roselli said calmly. I wont hurt you any- more. Chops lowered his hands. He looked left, then right. Then, in a burst of movement, he took off toward the dumpster. Roselli had seen him run before, but never this fast. He thought about shouting after him, telling him something to take his terror away. But he couldnt come up with the words. Chops grabbed his sack from the ground without breaking stride and kept going, disappearing with a left turn onto Main Street. Roselli breathed in deeply, then exhaled, fogging the eve- ning air as he had before, as anyones breath would. But the cloud he produced this time was shaped differently from anyone elses, and differed from the one hed made earlier. He felt his heart beat again, this time not too fast or hard. He reached back into his jacket, feeling again for the gun.
He took the magazine out and removed the ffteen car- tridges with his left hand, one at a time. He placed them in his pocket in groups of three. He pointed the gun downward and pulled the trigger, disengaging the fring pin, and then held the gun in his right hand. He squeezed the levers on either side of the weapon with the thumb and index fnger of his left hand and, with his right, pushed the slide forward off the frame. He put the magazine, the barrel, the spring, and the slide in the same pocket as the rounds; they all pinged against one another as he wheeled himself to the dumpster. He reached up and opened a side panel. Gently, he tossed the frame of the gun inside. It vanished and barely made a sound, its fall cushioned, Roselli supposed, by a bag of garbage. He turned his chair around and wheeled it back to the broader alley, feeling the bumps but not bothered by them. The muscles in his face were relaxed. If you looked at him now in the bright light thrown off by the neon sign outside the pub, you would see a man of twenty-eight, seated. Tomorrow, he told himself, hed come up with a plan. For now, he was grateful to have made it this far. He pushed his wheels toward York Street. Previously published in The South Carolina Review, Spring 2010. 27 BRACED FOR FREEDOM J.D. CHANEY I t was in the late spring of 1906 when the decision was made. The Russian government was instituting pogroms, an unoffcial systematic kill- ing of Jews in small Russian villages, and it was only a matter of time before the Levines poverty-stricken village was attacked. Thus, Sam, Sheba, and polio-stricken daughter, Pearl had de- cided to come to America. The only problem was because the family was so poor, they only had enough money to send one person abroadand that person would be my grandfather, Sam Levine. The plan was for him to get to America and save as much money as necessary before sending for his wife and daughter. However, Sam whose family lived in Northwestern Russia, just south of St. Petersburg, couldnt simply cross the border into Finland, pay his travel fare from Helsinki, and sail to New York. First hed needed to bribe the Russian guards and that was a risky situation. Luckily, he came across an apathetic guard who regarded him merely as a peasant. He made my grandfather open his satchel, searched through it, found a newly knitted scarf and grabbed it for himself. He then demanded a few rubles as a transfer fee. Had the guard known Sam was Jewish he could have reported him and had him thrown into prison. In the meantime, Sheba and baby Pearl waited, living in their one room shack, hoping from one day to the next that word would come from her husband. The wait was longso long in fact that Sheba began to lose hope, until one day, a letter arrived. Sam had arranged passage for her and Pearl and it had taken nearly fve years. Pearl, now six and wearing heavy wooden and metal braces could no longer remember her father, but when she saw the excited countenance upon her mothers face, she too smiled. America, was all She- ba could say to her daughter. Were going to America. Gathering their belongings, along with her most precious wedding gifta pair of silver candlestick holders, the two left their village late one summers evening, knowing that they had sev- eral miles to travel before confronting the border. Since little Pearl had dif- fculty walking with her heavy braces, her mother placed her on an aging mule they kept in their pasture. Sheba walked in front of the mule leading it by the reigns. As they got within sight of the border crossing, Sheba led both mule and rider into the woods. There she helped her daughter dismount, then reaching in her bag of knitting yarn, had Pearl hike up her long, frilly skirt. The crude braces stretched from the heel of her boots up to her thighs. Metal hinges crisscrossed over the elongated wooden braces and a leather strap belt cinched each leg at the thigh. Thinking quickly, Sheba reached back into her bundle and removed the can- dlestick holders. She then tied each one to the back of both legs, making sure they were as fush with the metal hing- es as possible. Hence, if a guard were to feel through the skirt for anything PERSONAL ESSAY 28 amiss, he would only sense the elon- gated wooden and metal rods that were of standard use for polio survivors. Within minutes they were back on the road and as they approached the two border guards, both mother and daugh- ter tensed. One guard held his hand up indicating that they were to go no far- ther. I just saw you go off the road and into the woods. Explain yourself. My daughter needed to relieve her- self, Sheba answered. That seemed to satisfy the frst guard and he motioned them forward. The second guard regarded the young girl on the mule. He studied her for a mo- ment, then asked her to get down. She- ba reached up and lifted her daughter from the mule. Business in Finland? the frst guard questioned. Sheba nodded, saying her aunt had been living there but had passed away. Sheba claimed she had received a letter telling her of a small inheritance, and she was on her way to collect it. The two guards looked at each other. Sheba realized her mistake immedi- ately. An inheritance meant that the guards would require a larger than normal bribe. She spoke up. Whatever money was left to me will go to pay our doctors bill. Pearl has polio, as you can see, and she will need many treatments if she is to have any chance to walk. It was diffcult to sense whether the guards were sympathetic to her plea. Both stared at the child until the one who had ordered them to stop, walked over to Pearl, knelt down in front of her and placed his hands on the hem of her skirt. He gently worked his way up, feeling the heavy metal clinging to those tiny legs. He then pressed his hands to Pearls inner thighs, where upon he was met with the same struc- tural casing. He sighed momentarily, then said softly, Youre a brave girl. Pearl smiled back, her head coyly tucked into her chest. She watched him as he stood up, ambled over to the other guard and whispered something to him. The second guard nodded and turned, lifting a long vertical bar. You may cross, he announced. A massive wave of relief passed across her face. Quickly, she placed Pearl back on the mule and as they approached the gate, the same guard announced, . . . and that will be three rubles. The price was high but it was within her means. She turned her back on the men, reached for a small purse tucked under her belt and withdrew some coins. The guard took it, then nodded. Das- vidanya, he shouted. Sheba looked back, stunned by the raised voice. She noticed, however, that the word was meant for little Pearl, for he spoke again, completing the sentence . . . my little Jewess princess. My grandmother Sheba died many years ago along with my Aunt Pearl who lived another 35 years with her polio. But as a child I can still vividly remember the silver candlestick hold- ers, brightly polished and centered in the middle of my grandparents large dining room table. Today, they belong to my mother and whenever I visit her Im always reminded of the remarkable story of my grandparents escape from Russia and the brave little girl with polio who would become a wife and mother herself despite her disability. 29 THE MEMORY OF ELEPHANTS
LESLIE PATTERSON E ven though my eyesight has become nothing but fog and shadows, I know the way the sun shining through an iron balcony makes a lace of light on the side of a house. I know how the Vermillion Flycatcher that winters in our Louisiana trees sets fre to a cloudy sky. Ive seen the fuchsia bougainvillea that clambers over iron fences and topples onto the banquettes, the verdigris metal of the covered market, and the tables in my fathers of- fce piled high with snowy white cotton. I know that even though I am unable to see them, steamboats still crowd the muddy river and their smokestacks still punctuate the sky along the wharf like minarets. Surely my artistic cousin should want to paint that. I had such hopes when my husband wrote me from his business trip in Paris, saying that Cousin Edgar would be coming for a visit. I thought that Edgar, the great artist, would see for me all the beautiful things that I have missed in these ten years of gathering darkness. He would go out into the bustling streets of New Orleans or the surround- ing sunny cane felds and come back to our familys rented mansion on Esplanade to tell me all that he saw. He would say how the little houses along the streets of the French Quarter are painted the colors of faded fowers and how the green stalks of cane ripple in the wind. He would have the eyes to show me these things. He would have the time to tell me about them. Mais non, Edgar stays inside and dwells on his memories of Paris and the Franco Prussian War of almost two years ago. And because I am blind and a woman and heavy with a child waiting to be born, I am stuck inside our family house with him, seeing all the horrors he conjures up for me. Today he says, By December, the siege seemed as if it would never end. Hunger set in. Horsemeat was scarce. Grain had to be conserved, and the animals at the zoo were getting thinner and thinner. Edgars voice goes raspy with emotion and warns me that his story is going to be particularly unpleasant. I try to shoo my ten-year-old daughter from the room. Jo, I say, go outside and play with the little ones. But my effort is pointless. I can feel her standing half- cocked by the door, trying to convince me that she is about to leave. The elephants, Castor and Pollux, were pitiful to behold, but still people would see them and drool. What does an elephant look like? I try to remember. I shuffe through images like a deck of cards: Hannibal in the Alps, an oriental prince seated high on the back of a leath- ery beast, a poster for a circus that I was forbidden to at- FICTION 30 tend. Then I think of the Noahs ark I played with as a child. The toy had a full complement of garish animals in grinning pairs. The elephants had wild blue eyes. Some entrepreneur decided that he would buy the el- ephants, slaughter them, and serve them up at a New Years feast. Unfortunately, there was a problemthe butcher and his cronies had no experience killing such large animals. First, they shot the elephant called Castor with a carbine. For a moment, Castor seemed to hardly notice the wound, but his blood spurted everywhere. The gun was reloaded with steel-tipped bullets. Castor began to shriek. It took two more shots to put the poor fellow down. And then, they began on Pollux. Despite the killers practice, the second slaughter was no more effcient. battlefelds. I see the Comedie Francaise turn into a hospital and the marble bust of that old empiricist Voltaire smirking down at the wounded. In the midst of this hot Louisiana autumn, I shiver with the sensations of a French winter so cold that the stars jangle in the sky. When Edgar speaks, I feel like a prisoner in a city at war. I imagine myself in Paris at dusk. I see a red hot air balloon rise into the pink sky and wish that I were a passen- ger. Amidst a cloud of futtering carrier pigeons, the balloon foats off to a land beyond war. By the third week of his visit, I have seen enough of my cousins war. I resolve to force him to confront some new scenery. I knock on the door of the apartment on the ground foor of the house, the one my father shares with my spin- ster sister Didi and, now, with our guest, Edgar. Oui, Edgar replies to my knock without bothering to open the door. His voice is cranky with sleeping late. Edgar, I need you to accompany me to the market. He opens the door. In your condition? Are you certain thats wise Estelle? I pat my bulging belly. The baby will be fne, but I need apples so that Clemance can make a pie. Surely she can get them. I point to my nose. Apples are best picked by smell, and Clemances nose is hopeless. At the market, Edgar and I must seem a sad pair. I grip his arm and trip along with my stuttering blind womans walk, probably embarrassing my cousin who chivalrously tries to guide me through the maze of tightly stacked merchandise. He cannot believe that I know where I am by the sounds. I listen to the calls of the various vendors to fnd the fruit seller I like. At her stall, I inhale the waxy peels of oranges and bananas speckled soft-ripe. Edgar helps me pick apples, holding each perfect globe up to my nose so that I can enjoy the delicious nip of a northern fall. On the walk home, he says, Everything attracts me here: the orange trees, the Negroes in old clothes, the white, white children in the arms of black nursemaids. He sighs before he says the thing he really wants to say. If only I He is not used to children and the children of blind women in particular, obsessed with how things taste, touch, and smell. I am so busy imagining a blue-eyed elephant bellowing and bleeding that my daughters voice comes as a shock. What does elephant taste like? Edgar pauses before he answers Jos question. It is clear that he thinks my child is a ghoul. He is not used to children and the children of blind women in particular, obsessed with how things taste, touch, and smell. Can you believe I didnt even get a bite? The price they were charging! But ask me what cat and rat taste like those favors I know. And so it goes. Day after day, Edgar uses his words to paint war scenes for me. I see a thunderstorm light up the sky above Paris. The news has arrived about the defeat at Se- dan, and rioters are beginning to set things on fre. Gusts of wind carry furries of burning paper. Then Paris turns gold with autumn, and the people hunker down in the city under siege. Fashionable ladies climb to the heights of the Tro- cadero to view the Prussian enemy through their lorgnettes. Leaves fall. As cold weather arrives, the trees in the Bois de Boulogne are cut down for fuel. Barges bearing frozen bod- ies stacked like frewood foat down the Seine from distant 31 felt that my eyes werent so fragile. The sun here is so bril- liant. It hurts my eyes. Imagine the things that I could paint here! He is quiet after his outburst, uncertain how to discuss fail- ing eyesight with a blind woman. * * * I met Edgar ten years ago, during the last years when the light leaking into my eyes could probably be described as sight. It was during the war. I was a widow then. Jo was a newborn. Jos father had been killed wearing a gray uniform on a battlefeld in Corinth, Mississippi. After Balfours death, I cried so often that it was easy to believe I blinded myself with my tears. I would kiss the top of Jos head as I nursed her and taste brine. Still weeping, I went to France with my baby, my mother, and my practical sister Didi. On our journey, I complained to my mother and Didi of pain in my eyes. Then stop cry- ing, was Didis reply. In France, I dried my cheeks and realized that my sight, particularly in my left eye, was wan- ing. In Paris, we met Creoles on every corner. Women and chil- dren and old men escaping the occupation of New Orleans and indulging in the comfort of French friends and rela- tives. Mr. Slidell, the Confederate ambassador, held parties and tried to make things gay, but his guests would wind up huddled in corners holding worried conversations about money and politics. To escape this dismal community, we went to stay in sleepy, cold, Bourg en Bresse. Cousin Edgar came to visit us there, bringing bonbons and stories to cheer us up. Before his arrival, we were warned that our thirty-year-old cousin already had the prickly ways of a confrmed bachelor, but with us, he was utterly charm- ing. He sketched Didis hands and painted my portrait. As he positioned me in a wet feld, he touched my face and angled my chin toward the wan sun with such tenderness that I cried again. He let me weep as he painted. In the end the portrait was blurry, as if my cousin saw things through my eyes, weary with grief. * * * After our trip to the market, Edgar decides to fll his after- noon painting another picture of me. Ten years have passed since that sad time in France. I have remarried and had two more children. I am eight months pregnant with my fourth child and hardly a conventional subject, but I suppose that blind women are not allowed to be vain. He perches me on the edge of a chaise longue. I feel as if my left ear is facing him rather than my eyes. And indeed, my ears have taken over for my eyes. I am alert to every noise, ready to break up a fght between the children or to rush to the assistance of Didi. Isnt it unfair to paint a blind woman? I tease. Edgars brush stops its gentle scrape on the canvas. Youre not totally blind, he says quickly. What can you see? Since he arrived in New Orleans, he must have wanted to ask this. He wants me to offer him some tale of my blind- ness that will contradict the symptoms of failing sight that he is experiencing. He wants me to be his personal blind prophet. Even though Edgar has only just positioned me into the pose, I rise. I walk toward the place where I can feel that he is standing. The November sun streams through the win- dows and heats up the carpet. I pass Edgars easel with its damp, buttery smell. I walk behind him and allow my hands to travel up to his face. Edgar clatters down his paintbrush. I put the palms of my hands over his eyes. His eyelids futter beneath my touch. This is what I see. * * * Months later, as Edgar is packing to return to France, my sister, Didi, looks at our cousins painting of me. It is beautiful but odd. Whatever do you mean? It is as if he has painted you from the inside out. The entire canvas is covered, suffused, I mean, with a hazy pink light. Like sunlight through skin. I know now that my cousin has understood. He must devote himself to seeing while he can. For my part, I see very little. For my pictures, I must rely on the pink warmth of touch and the memory of toy elephants. Previously published in Ballyhoo Stories (now defunct). 32 FEATURED ART BALANCING ACT SANDY PALMER Bradley G. Michael, Peace, 2002, airbrush acrylic on canvas, 2.5 x 2 If you have a passion for anything in life, follow it. If you have inspiration to do something that involves that passion, run like the wind with it. ~ Bradley G. Michael I n art and life Bradley G. Michael has juggled the ex- tremes of beauty and horror. Balancing life precariously he revels in the magnifcence of creation, nature, and all things lovely while enduring the darkness of depression, anxiety, and terrorlife in continuous, sometimes chaotic, motion. Voices in his head are deceptive. Frightening. Con- fusing. Disruptive. Miss a beat and it is a struggle to regain stability. He had a seemingly idyllic early childhood growing up on a small farm in Iowa. He remembers running through corn felds with his dog, playing with pigs, and riding on his fathers Harley Davidson. When he was 5 years old his parents sold the Harley and used the money to put a down payment on a small house in Cookeville, Tennessee. He en- joyed being outsideplaying in the mud with the turtles by the pond, and insidecreating things with Legos, Play-doh, paper, and crayons. In high school he began selling wearable artwork. He painted on shoes, shirts, and jackets. By that time he had already experienced an intense battle with depression that began when he was 12 years old. During his frst semester at Nossi College of Art he earned a 3.8 grade point average but he began having hallucinations and mood swings that he says, would keep me up and laughing, for no apparent rea- son, for many days and then I would feel so hopeless that I wouldnt eat, get out of bed, or take a shower. He experi- enced panic attacks and paranoia. I felt I was going to die 33 Bradley G. Michael, Balance, 2014, stock photos manipulated using Photoshop, 8 x 10 many times and other times I wanted to die. The artist was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder (schizophrenia cou- pled with a mood disorder) and after multiple admissions to psychiatric hospitals he was forced to drop out of school. He was taking antipsychotics but still struggled with de- pression and anxiety. Months would go by and he wouldnt paint or draw anything and then with a sudden burst of overwhelming inspiration he would complete several pieces in a very short period of time. His father had been diagnosed with schizophrenia late in life. He was very strict and would sometimes sit in the dark with cigarettes and ask me to stand beside him in the dark . . . I loved him dearly but he frightened me. When Michael was only 20 years old, his father died in his arms from a bleeding ulcer while he waited for the paramedics to arrive. The trials he has endured, and his hopes for the future, fuel his desire to create. I want to show the beauty of creation, hoping that people will take a moment to see things through his eyes when they view his work and fnd love, beauty, and joy within. With an appreciation for the artistry found in nature, he uses photography to preserve what he sees. On a trip to Gatlinburg, Tennessee he captured a glorious sunset, combined it with a photo of some fowers he took in Cookeville, and manipulated the image in Photoshop by adjusting the contrast and adding a lens fare in the sky. The result, Purple Flowers, bursts with deep violet hues, warmth, and sheer beauty. Conversely, he tries to provide a glimpse into the horrors he has experienced as a person with schizoaffective disorder. Dark Voices was created to show how I feel on days that my mind screams at me. The image has a triple exposure with a squeezing, plastic wrap flter. The distress is evident and disturbing as hands over the ears try in vain to drown out the noise that comes from within. Through his work he hopes to comfort those who have mental illness with the knowledge that they are not alone. He also hopes to dispel the fears that many people have regarding people with men- tal illness, helping them realize they are ordinary people in need of compassion, understanding, and acceptance. He is his own worst critic. If he wont hang something on his own walls, he will destroy it. Although he now creates most of his work in Photoshop he says, I do feel that a true piece of artwork should be done by hand. In addition to 34 Bradley G. Michael, Dark Voices, 2005, photography (triple exposure) and image manipulation using Photoshop, 11 x 17 photography, Michael enjoys playing the guitar and work- ing with a variety of media including clay, pen and ink, and acrylics. He prefers to use acrylic paints with an airbrush so he can meticulously layer colors to achieve the desired ef- fect. The image of a Siberian tiger titled, Peace, is symbolic and one of his favorites. He had been contemplating suicide when he says, I got saved in a church in Cookeville and I have never felt so much peace. He worked on the image of the tiger during that tranquil state and says once it was com- plete, he could see himself within the painting. His work has been on display in a gallery in Cookeville as well as at the local county fair. Some of his art has been used on book covers. Elements and Dark Voices have won frst place in art contests sponsored by zoetrope.com, a site founded by Francis Ford Copella. Although he is honored to have his work recognized, he is most proud of his role as a husband and father to 9-year-old twins, Bradley Jr. and Katie Ann. His wife Nadia is from Scotland. They met online and have been married for 12 years. He is grateful to his wife and his mother (who he describes as his best friend) for their ongoing support. His mother lives nearby with and cares for his younger brother who has a developmental disability. The artist takes a combination of medications that control most of his symptoms although bouts with depression still plague him. He turns to family, faith, and art during formi- dable times. He creates when he feels inspired and sees art as freedom of the soul. To learn more about him or to see more of his work, visit www.BradleyGMichael.net.
Bradley G. Michael 35 Bradley G. Michael, Sister, 2012, stock photos manipulated using Photoshop, 8 x 10 Bradley G. Michael, Brother Eternal, 2005, photography (double exposure), 11 x 17 36 Bradley G. Michael, The Great Escape, 2011, stock photos manipulated using Photoshop, 11 x 17 37 SEAN LAUSE
David
In my eyes, he still spies on me in dreams suspended in mirrors that descend. His head a broken drum, born at a twisted angle, as if some god of spite snapped it to one side before hurling him into the world, his eyes question marks, his bony arms pointless exclamations. When he was a boy, the other boys chased him, stoned him, but I snapped my big slingshot to drive them away. Write this in your tablets: I did something. David read books and books in a school where ignorance was a blessing, and he loved Star Trek, the nerds foating paradise. Sometimes Id follow him down the halls, through secret paths behind the lockers, his whispered words calling me, his hands thrusting through darkness like wingless birds. Mr. White, World History and Gym, had clichs caught in his moustache. He hurled them at David every day. Be a man, David, get laid, David, Number Two is the First Loser, David, Stop being the dork of the world. Mr. Dark, the basketball coach, a legend, could skip whole classes when he won, and he sucked a Tootsie Roll Pop of victory and called David The Hebrew Crip. And I did nothing. Yet no one came for me. No voices condemned from behind lecterns. No slide shows showed the truth. Besides, there were always others to take the blame The girls who giggled when he passed, And tugged at their skirts . . . If only he had cured cancer or committed suicide, I could be done with him. But in my dreams he only turns, silent, and walks away from my words, descending in a storm of night before I can call him back. POETRY 38 PAOLOS BALCONY LAWRENCE L. EMMERT FICTION G rant Samson stood in the foyer, his slippers em- bedded in a round shag rug. One hand was frmly around the doorknob. The other hand, wrist turned inward, gripped the edge of a package causing the package to lay face up on his forearm. We have something from Italy he said closing the door, his backside giving it a push.
Giving the package two suspicious shakes, he motioned Madeline, who had heard the doorbell, to follow him though an archway into the living room. A television set stood against the right wall. On the left wall a clever pre- sentation of framed pictures was hung above a davenport where they sat down. Madeline hefted the parcel and then held it with the tips of her fngers as she read: Grant and Madeline Samson 4914 Popular St. Ajax, Michigan 48357 The postage (in euros) was metered at the right corner. The return address was St. Francis Friary, Assisi, Italy. Other than its one inch width, the package had the dimensions of an old 33-rpm phonograph jacket.
Its got one of those clever tab releases that needs a knife to open, Grant said as he sawed at a corner and tore off an end strip. Upending it, he shook the box until a book clumped onto the glass surface of the coffee table. The book was titled Origins of Greatness; written and illus- trated by Brother Paolo Zucara, OFM. The jacket cover was designed in four equal panels entitled, Literature, Sculpture, Architecture, and Painting. Each panel had an illustration of a youthful boy or girl with enig- matic expressions as if they were waiting for someone to teach them how to use the writing quill or chisel or brush that they held in small fsts. On the inside fap of the dust jacket was a picture of the au- thor. He wore a brown cassock and sat forward on a bench, one forearm loosely idle over a knee. In the other hand he gripped a staff that was planted on the ground off to his side. Madeline sat back on the davenport with her legs crossed at the ankles, the book held open on her lap. With her chin thrust forward and eyelids half closed, she tilted her head down to read what had been written beneath the photo: Brother Paolo Zurcara, OFM. 1937-2003, Administrator- Curator of the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi. A neuron of memory ticked in the corner of her mindlike an errant phone number or a relatives birthdatea latent coda playing at the cusp of recollection. * * * On the third foor of the Fiat Automotive building in Turin, Italy, Sandro Zucara stood before the wall of glass that flled the east wall of his offce. He watched the movement in the shipping yard below and imagined hearing the fa- miliar sound of precision engines as new Fiats were driven onto railroad transport cars. Miles away, beyond the load- 39 ing yard, above the sunlit spires and rooftops of Turin, the northern arm of the Apennine mountains rose and stretched south across the Piedmont region, painting the horizon in ripples of orange and pink beneath a waning flament of velvet sky.
The memory of Paolos early departure still on his mind, Sandros fnger absently traced the contour of a distant mountain peak on the window. * * * At the time Sandoro Zucara had been standing at his offce window, lamenting his sons departure and trying to gain solace from the natural splendor of the Apennine chain, his son Paolo was traversing that same range of mountains. On his lap was a nylon duffel bag containing his sketchpad and two books, one about art history and the second, a novel by Victor Hugo. Paolo had also found room in the duffe for two sandwiches wrapped in brown paper that his mother had handed to him before he boarded the train. Under his seat was a small carry-on in which he had packed socks and underwear along with a few other personal items. That morning, Paolo had taken a taxi from an apartment he had been living in outside of Turin and found both his parents waiting at the train station. His mother, a practicing catho- lic, endorsed her sons decision. As if she were sending her son off to his frst day at school, she handed him two sand- wiches that she herself had made the night before. Sandro Zacura had withheld approval until last month when Paolo had shown him the train ticket and a letter of instruction from the friary in Assisi. The train engineer blew a fnal boarding whistle. Sandro removed his wristwatch and took hold of his sons wrist. You must have a watch to keep time, he said with a faint smile.
I should not accept such a valuable piece, said Paolo, watching his father secure the clasp on his wrist. Franciscans do not use sundials. Sandro laughed. The watch is Swiss. It belonged to my grandfather. I want you to have it. So take it. Paolo recalled how his father had tightly held his forearm, pulling him close. We are father and son. And you will forever be in my heart he said, slowly releasing his hold. * * * The train entered a tunnel and the hollow roar of com- pressed air interrupted Paolos thoughts. The strident echo of the tunnel subsided, replaced by the rhythm of wheels that moved smoothly along the rails giving off measured thumps of muted harmony. Paolo became restless. The sensation that now visited him was not the raw anxiety of a boy leaving his home. It was an odd, lugubrious unease that spurred the restlessness and tugged at his spirit. Paolo placed his head back on the seat and closed his eyes think- ing a short rest might be the bromide for the sudden unfa- miliar melancholy. He dozed. The feeting hypnotic lights: the steady roll of wheels . . . entered his dream. * * * Paolo was a child of six. The smeary blue lights that passed rapidly above and the faint faraway sound of impersonal voices gave him an empty, lonely feeling. He had felt secure when his parents brought him here, but now he sensed iso- lation and anxiety. The muscles in his neck hurt and an odd prickly feeling crawled over his young body; the feverish heat of his skin sensing each thread in the fabric of the blan- ket that he was wrapped in. For a moment, he thought the blue flmy lights that streaked above were the streetlamps of the lane outside his home in Turin. But these lights were strangely different because the colors changed whenever he blinked. He wanted to rub his knuckle over his eyes but his arm would not move. Lying on his back, he had tried to smile at his parents but he was too weak. In the dream, he saw the unusually somber face of his father and in his mothers eyes, a fear he had never before witnessed. She said, Well come back to get you tomorrow Paolo . . . But there was a certain fnality expressed by his surroundings and Paolo feared the wheels that rolled smoothly below the gurney, were taking him farther away from home to a place he had never been. 40 When he awakened, the train had passed through the mountain and sunlight flled the passenger car. He did not remember the dream. The ineffable despair that had caused the restlessness had vanished. Paolo unzipped the duffel bag removed a book and began to read Les Misrables. * * * With wide searching eyes, Paolo stood inside the Florentine train depot. He wore a khaki jacket with a blue suede col- lar. On his wrist he felt the leather band of the watch that his father had given him before boarding the train in Turin. Everything else he owned was in a carry-on, its strap slung over the left shoulder, and in a duffe bag which he held by a handle along his right side. Ah, food. Salami, my favorite. Dont have much salami in Assisi, said Jim after taking a bite. When he had chewed through half the sandwich, Jim reached across the dash- board, and with long fngers opened the glove box. It is still cold . . . fresh from the clear mountain streams of the Apennines, he said, as he handed one of two bottles of wa- ter to Paolo. After a mile, Jim said, We need a guitarist for our band. Its not hard to learnIll teach you. Becoming a friar is not all study of Latin and theology. And you will discover that it is bad to become too serious. There is a power, im- possible to ignore, that exists here in the mountains. It is well to fnd a diversion . . . something to keep you from imagining miracles. Well, how about it? I tell you, it will be good. After the guitar, then the piano. Thats what I play. Why, I . . . Ill think about it. * * * Back in Turin, Sandro Zacaro walked pensively along the train siding, his thoughts going back to 1943 when his son was a small child. Poliomyelitis surged virulently across Italy. Sandros son Paolo contracted it. Sandro, after eigh- teen years, could not prevent the dire thoughts that played on his mind. His son had been granted a reprieve from the paralysis that usually befell a victim of the virus. After months in a hospital, doctors discovered that Paolo had been infected with non paralytic polio and a full recovery could be expected. Sandro recalled the day when Paolo told him about the vol- unteer work he had begun in the poverty stricken suburbs of Turin. Assisting in a soup kitchen, he had met a number of Franciscan friars. These men are admirable, Paolo re- marked. They meet challenges without hostility and solve problems with calm persistence. As a college freshman, Paolo gave more time to the Franciscan Mission than to his studies. Sandro was ambivalent. On one hand he wished his son to become part of Fiat Motors. On the other hand, he had been the benefciary of his sons full recovery from the dreaded childhood disease. Sandro believed in destiny and when Paolo said he wished to become a member of the Or- der of St. Francis Minor, Sandros efforts to convince him otherwise were exerted halfheartedly and without rancor. * * * While Jim fueled the auto at a service station, Paolo cleaned the windshield and, since both men were anxious to reach their destination before nightfall, they took little time re- Sandro believed in destiny and when Paolo said he wished to become a member of the Order of St. Francis Minor, Sandros efforts to convince him otherwise were exerted halfheartedly and without rancor. He had waited only a few minutes when someone shouted his name. He turned on a heel peering about him. Again he heard his name called out. Paolo threw his arm up over his head and stood for a moment on the balls of his feet, the strap from the carry-on sliding up his collar. Ah! Here you are said a man who had been obscured by the matrix of milling people. He walked with long strides toward Paolo with his right palm extended. Im James La Sole, your guide, taxi driver, and your roommate. The man wore blue jeans and a green polo shirt with short sleeves and was taller than Paolo by six inches. He possessed a whimsical mouth with lips that angled up at each corner and his shaved head glistened in the light that entered through the large windows of the train station. They traveled south toward Assisi in a small car belong- ing to the friary. The temperature rose and Paolo pulled at the sleeves of his windbreaker. He unbuckled his seat belt, folded the jacket, and turned around to place it on the back seat near his duffe bag. Before settling back in the seat, he unzipped the duffe bag and removed the two sandwiches. 41 turning to the highway. The road ran seamlessly through the countryside. Outside his window, the Apennine lowlands became a blend of wind rippled felds and rolling hills, distinguished now and again by a cluster of distant cypress trees or herds of sheep grazing on the slope of a green pas- ture under the mantle of hazy sunlight. Paolo turned, and bracing his weight on one knee, reached back to retrieve a sketchpad from his duffe bag. Ah. You are an artist, said Jim glancing down at the sketchpad. Here, take my pen. He reached up to the visor where a ballpoint was clipped to the fabric. Paolo began tapping the end of the pen on a blank page and then twirl- ing it like a small baton in his fngers. Jim turned off the highway onto a narrow country road and drove for several miles. When the road started to incline, Jim gave Paolo a side glance. We will see the town of Assisi over that hill. When the Renault had reached the hilltop, Paolo stared through the windshield, awed by what he saw. The late afternoon sun outlined a rectangle of a high, sun-bleached wall that framed an ensemble of buildings roofed with scar- let tile work. The grounds inside the wall were immersed in flmy pink shadows. The sun had passed its zenith and was angling western rays over the city and, in the haze of the late afternoon, the town seemed to levitate on spangled blankets of violet and yellow wildfowers that grew behind the city and up a misty slope ending at the tawny cusp of a plateau. Paolo Zacara and James La Sole were both 20 years old. They sat perched atop the hood of the Renault that had been parked off the country road. One opened a new bottle of water and drank as he watched the other who, with a swift, confdent hand and an ardent expression, was drawing on a sketchpad. After formal ordination, Jim would answer to the name Brother La Sole and Paolo to the name of Brother Zacara. * * * Back in the Samson living room both Grant and Madeline agreed that the picture on the dust cover was of a friar who they had met in Italy some years before. As they pondered the unanswered question of why the book had been mailed, Grant began to recall that frst trip across the Atlantic. A Get Away Vacation to Italy was how the glossy bro- chure described it. Grant recalled landing in Rome where he and Madeline boarded a luxury bus flled with other tourists. Before jet lag had abated, they trudged up and down the Spanish Steps, explored the Roman Coliseum and snapped pictures of the ruins at the Roman Forum. The fol- lowing day they were treated to a tour of St. Peters Basilica and later were enchanted by the frescoes of the Sistine Cha- pel. On the third day, the bus headed out of Rome. The next stop was Assisi, a three hour ride north into the Umbrian Province and through the foothills of the Apennine Moun- tains. After formal ordination, Jim would answer to the name Brother La Sole and Paolo to the name of Brother Zacara. The bus driver got out and shouted a perfunctory This way! and the group followed him up a series of wide steps. At the top, a mezzanine of pale, white fagstones, spread to the left and right and then outward where it ended at the base of a cathedral. A man holding a wood staff and wear- ing a brown cassock stood waiting amid the fagstones. He grimaced slightly behind wire rimmed glasses but, as the group approached, his face became pleasant, his demeanor scholarly and somewhat biblical. I am Brother Zacara of the Order of Francis Minor. Let me welcome you to Assisi. Behind me is the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi that we will enter in a few moments. He lifted his staff and directed its nub upward at the bell tower looming above the basilica. That bell still peals each hour. It is a marvelous design by craftsman of the tenth century. Several years ago, it crashed to the pavement when the region had an earthquake. But do not fret about the bell tower falling on you. He paused briefy and grinned back at the group. The engineers have repaired it with modern reinforced alloy. Fortunately, the earthquake did only minor damage inside the basilica. There is much to see, so lets begin. Then the friar beckoned the group with his forefn- ger, glanced over his shoulder like a shepherd leading his fock, and, using the long wood staff for balance, he led the tourists over the threshold and into the church. When the tour ended, the travelers meandered outside where a row of kiosks displayed arrays of mementos and souvenirs. Grant casually picked at a few items and mut- tered to himself that the setup was a tourist trap. Just then he came upon a kiosk that had several rows of pictures at- tached to each wall. One was a sketch of a distant landscape that captured the city of Assisi. Its charming perspective impressed Grant and after paying for it, he scrolled it up so Madeline could ft it in her travel bag. 42 The string of shoppers started back toward the bus when they were intercepted by the bus driver who, with his grey, peaked hat pushed back on his head and a somewhat dole- ful expression, explained that a tourist had fallen ill and had been taken to a clinic in Assisi. Shrugging helplessly with his hands palms up, the driver said there would be at least an hour delay. Brother Zacara, who had agreed to pose for pictures in front of the basilica entrance, overheard the driver and walked over to speak to him. Grant recalled how the friar raised the sleeve of the cassock to check the time on his watch. Brother Zacara then told those within earshot that there was a place near the basilica where the travelers could wait until the bus was ready to leave. I say we go down to the bus and wait, Grant said quickly. Madeline, curious and still flled with energy, told him to go ahead but she was going with the friar. Grant rolled his eyes, jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers and followed. * * *
Brother Zacara had led the small group to a side of the basilica away from the kiosks. He came to a high, wooden gate that was part of a latticed trellis covered by thick, green ivy. He swung the gate inward and a small group fled past him into an enclosed space that had the sweet, spicy fragrance of burned incense. There were matching wooden tables and benches placed in an oblong space with the ground covered by worn cobblestones. The brown feld- stone of the basilica rose high above on one side. The other side was an ivy covered wall of red brick. Opposite the gate, a row of low mulberry bushes, framing a small, che- rubic fountain, opened to a view of the Apennine lowlands. Grant and Madeline bent their knees and wiggled along a bench that serviced one of the four tables and by happen- stance, Brother Zacara sat down on the opposite bench, lay- ing his staff on the cobblestone near his feet. Madeline broke the silence by saying how much she loved the murals inside the basilica and admitted not knowing that the famous fresco of St. Francis Preaching to the Animals had its home in Assisi.
Most are not familiar with the treasures found in Assisi, said the friar. There are many stories that I have heard about the grounds here at the mission, and his eyes swept over the patch of cobblestone, his voice becoming wistful. This ancient courtyard is where the frst Franciscan friars tied their donkeys and horses after preaching the gospel in the village down below. He pointed over the row of mul- berry bushes to a valley steeped in the afternoon shadows. Legend has it that St. Francis slept on a bed of straw, per- haps where we are sitting, to keep the donkeys calm when wolves came down from the mountains. Some say that this is where Giotto made the frst illustrations of the frescoes that I showed you on the walls of the basilica. Keep trying. Few artists are born, many are made, she said. The tourists who had sat at neighboring tables left to go back and wait on the bus. Grant Samson, being more at ease, decided to contribute an anecdote of his own, the cooling evening air and long day releasing his inhibitions. Madeline, somewhat taken aback by her husbands offer to join the conversation, resolutely placed her entwined hands on the table near her travel bag. Brother Zacara removed his glasses and leaned over with elbows on the table as he and Madeline waited for Grant to speak. Sister Rosemarie, an art teacher in the ffth grade, was the frst person, outside of my parents who helped me believe in myself. Even the troublemakers in the class came to at- tention when she took charcoal to an easel and ran lines this way and thatthe results were like magic. It was when we returned from Christmas vacation that she assigned a class project; a topographical map of the United States to be de- signed on the top of a thick sheet of poster board. Modeling clay was used to make mountains and Elmers glue to stick on tiny cutouts to represent farms, ranches, and factories. The prize for the best map was to be a blue ribbon. One morning, Sister Rosemarie was inspecting our work and stopped behind my chair. I had been trying to add the new state of Alaska to the map using pieces of white chalk and wasnt sure if it was right. Now that is smart thinking and I like your imagination. I turned around and looked up at her. Keep trying. Few artists are born, many are made, she said. And then she moved to the next table. Did you win the blue ribbon? asked Brother Zacara who had listened intently. No, there were other maps better than mine. But when I re- fect on that episode, I realize it was not the prize that mat- tered. The important thing was that I learned I was capable of creating that map . . . and of fnishing what I started. That is a big thing for a 5th grader. 43 Instilling confdence in the young is honorable, com- mented the friar whose demeanor had become pensive, his upper lip covering his lower, his brows arched. After a mo- ment, he said, your story of Sister Rosemarie has given me an idea. May I have permission to use it? Use it as you wish, said Grant, fashing a smug glance at Madeline. The bells in the tower above them clanged seven times. The friar looked at his watch and informed us that we had been talking for two hours. It is the time for vespers, and it is my turn to lead the prayers. I must leave you now or my superior will send me to bed without dinner, he said with a chuckle. The friar swung both legs from beneath the table and reached down for his staff. With hand over fst, he braced his weight on the staff and slowly raised himself up saying, Im not so young anymore.
It was getting late and the Samsons did not want to chance being left behind. A tall friar with dense, white eyebrows was scurrying nearby, removing empty bottles from vacated tables. The man stopped them as they passed and introduced himself as Brother La Sole. He noticed Madeline carefully tucking the scrolled Assisi drawing inside her travel bag. Ah, you have purchased the best picture of Assisi that has ever been created. I will tell you a secret, he said, hold- ing up a forefnger, tilting his bald head, and smiling a sly, prideful smile. The artist who made the original drawing was sitting at your table. Brother Zacara did this? asked Madeline, taking the scrolled print from her travel bag. If I had known, perhaps he would have signed the copy. Ah, let me have it, please. When I met him a moment ago he was as gleeful as a child and may be willing to forego his usual humility. If he agrees, I will have the autographed picture delivered to your bus. Indeed! Brother Zacara autographed the picture. * * *
For months, Brother Zacara had been trying to decide upon a theme for his manuscript. He had serendipitously discov- ered one this evening during the discussion with Mr. and Mrs. Samson. However, his excitement was stifed by the fatigue that slowed his movements as he walked from the small mission chapel out into the dim light of evening. The ache in his legs was something new and for some reason he had diffculty relaxing his shoulder muscles. Relying on assistance from his wooden staff, the friar walked past the terrace where he had sat earlier with the Samsons and then entered the peacefulness of the basilica where he walked down the nave, the tapping of his staff the only sound. * * * When Sandro Zacaro was informed that Paolo was visiting doctors in Assisi because of a strange illness, he arranged for his son to be fown to Zurich, Switzerland for an ap- pointment with an orthopedic physician who Sandro knew and trusted to be knowledgeable. On the telephone, the spe- cialist reported he had administered a wide range of blood tests and found no inherent virus or bacteria but that an examination detected considerable atrophy of muscle mass. He then reminded Sandro that the medical records he had reviewed indicated the son had contracted poliomyelitis at the age of six. Ah, you have purchased the best picture of Assisi that has ever been created. I will tell you a secret, he said, holding up a forefnger, tilting his bald head, and smiling a sly, prideful smile. Yes, of course, how could I forget? It was a horrible time. Thank God that Paolo had a full recovery, said Sandro. The specialist fell silent for a few seconds. The original contagious virus ran its course when your son was ill at the age of six. But residual effects have devel- oped. This is not uncommon among those who contracted the disease before the Salk vaccine was discovered in 1955. It is possible your son is suffering from post-polio syn- drome. It has been forty years. How could there be such a thing? Sandro exclaimed. The doctor explained there were limited case studies on the illness because poliomyelitis, in the industrial nations, had been neutralized by vaccination and relatively few polio survivors were still alive. He told Sandro that the diagnosis was not grounded on the clinical examination but on logical extrapolation based on what he had heard from colleagues. 44 Not all patients with polio are affected. Each case is dif- ferent depending on what muscle had been weakened and the severity of the original viral attack. When Paolo had been infected by the disease at the age of six, the virus may have caused minor damage so when he recovered, his body functions appeared completely normal. My suspicion is that there may have been a scintilla of nerve injury, but enough to require other muscles to take up the slack. Over a long period, weakness and atrophy have occurred. It is like aging before your time, said the specialist. hours with Brother Paolo Zacara. (A passenger on the bus had become ill; the tour was delayed and you both waited at a table on our terrace with Brother Zacara.) With much sadness, I must tell you that Brother Paolo Zacara died a year ago. Brother Zacara and I joined the Order of Francis Minor in 1960 and were close friends for the decades that we ministered to the people in the region of Assisi. No one at the mission knew him better than I. Brother Zacara was an excellent artisthis forte was black and white drawing. He admired great artists and said once that these renowned masters may have been average men or women, motivated to great achievement by someone who inspired them at an early age. I did not question him about this since he had become an expert in the feld of Renaissance Art. Shortly after his ordination, Brother Zacara began a study of Giotto and Cimabue, his interest generated by frescoes painted on the walls of the Basilica of St. Francis in Assisi. His efforts resulted in two volumes of history about pre-Renaissance masters and he was in demand as a lecturer on the art of Assisi; all the while he continued his duties as a friar at the Assisi Mission. One afternoon he confded that he was having diffculty rising after kneeling in the chapel. I chided him about get- ting old. However, the weakness persisted and worsened. The medical advice was to slow down and get more rest. Brother Zacara was not a person who would accept such a prescription. (When you met him on the tour of the ba- silica, Brother Zacara had been ill for a number of years. By then, doctors had diagnosed the illness as post-polio syndrome.) Looking at Brother Zacaras book, you will see how he skillfully arranged his illustrations from the hundreds he had drawn. Note that many pages show iconic masters as young, fedgling apprentices being guided by a mentor. A commentary at the bottom of the page captures the mood and message of the illustration. If you look on page 75, you will see how Brother Zacara benefted from your rendition of the art of Sister Rosemarie. He repeated many times after the frst galley was completed, without you, he would never have found his road through the woods. Before he died, Bother Zacara wrote to me expressing his wish that if the book was published, I take the time to send a copy to you with a letter to explain how your experience in the 5th grade had been an inspiration. I need not say more about the book. It is a beautiful visual essay. All of the Brothers of the Order who minister in Italy have heard of it and are very proud. He repeated many times after the frst galley was completed, without you, he would never have found his road through the woods. Sandro, his hand gripping the phone, said that he would pay whatever price was required for any treatment that might cure his son.
My opinion is a personal one and I trust you will accept it in confdence. The doctor paused for a moment and contin- ued. I believe pharmaceutical companies have concluded that when the present corps of polio survivors dies, the problem will die with them. Therefore, it is not proftable to invest money to discover a viable means for treatment. I could tell you that certain kinds of exercise will combat the deterioration. This would give you false hope. Moreover, I have been told by my colleagues that exercise actually can have negative results. * * *
Did we meet Brother James La Sole in Assisi? asked Madeline, bringing Grant Samson back to reality. He now realized that a nexus existed between their visit to Assisi and the book that had arrived in the mail that morning. Grant reached for the letter that his wife had discovered in- side the packing box. It was written on offcial stationery of the Mission of St. Francis, Assisi, Italy.
October 4, 2004 Dear Mr. and Mrs. Samson, It was four years ago that we met in Assisi and it is under- standable if you do not remember me since our time togeth- er was short. However, you must recall speaking for a few 45 I invite you to visit anytime you come to Assisi. We can sit at the same terrace. Outside the gate, on a wood beam, we have installed a plaque that reads: Paolos Balcony. My best regards, Brother James La Sole OFM Director of Music, Mission of St. Francis The arrival of the book was no longer a mystery. It was done in a simple but consistent, artistic modeillustrations in charcoal, pen, or pencil; sketches of young people work- ing with a mentor actively engaged in some creative project. Grant and Madeline turned to page 75. There sat a young POETRY student at a desk. On the desk was a large cardboard square with a map drawn on the surface. The country depicted on the map was Italy. Behind the desk was a nun, bent over, pointing at the drawing. At the bottom of the page was the caption: Talent and genius are inherent, but are useless without will. The will to achieve is never inherent. It is in- stilled by encouragement of the imagination. Grant placed the book down on the coffee table and he and Madeline stood to look at the montage of travel pictures on the wall behind them. Their eyes focused on one that hung close to the center. It was the autographed sketch that Grant Samson had purchased at the kiosk outside the basilica in Assisi. ANDREA ROSENHAFT
Sunlight Beckoned The sun had started to rise over the asphalt track where I was walking slowly. I felt the pain in my joints start to ease and my Swiss cheese bones begin to knit. Approaching a narrow tunnel of sunlight, I closed my eyes and lifted my face toward the warmth, savoring the few steps that crossed its luminous path. Later, locked on the eating disorder foor of the hospital, a random shadow of sunlight teased me, dancing on the foor, echoing the pattern of the grate fxed to the window. What would I have to do to get out? Eat hated foods. Gain unwanted pounds. Force myself to comply with their rules. Meal after meal, I staggered back to the living room, stomach protesting, jeans growing tight. Terrifed, I cursed everyone and everything. But sunlight beckoned. I persisted. Belly swelled. Doors opened. I walked out. 46 PERSONAL ESSAY BROTHER
BETH BAKER W atery light, the pale blue color of skim milk, angles through the narrow window in the living room. I dont have to look outside to know what I will see: wet black streets, a low grey sky, snow falling in sheets across blurred Montana hills. My sister Britta clumps up the stairs and into our apartment. I slouch on the couch and watch as she shakes melted snow off her coat. She slips out of her rain boots, crosses the room in her stocking feet, and sits down on the couch under the painting of our brother. I look at the painting above her. Brad stares back at me, eyes obscured behind glasses. His face is unreadable. He stands in an undefned shadow landscape, the sun glowing red over dark lake water behind him. He holds a silver fsh up by a string, the shape and color of the fsh echoing the shape and color of his long exposed bicep and fst, raised high, in anger? In defance? In triumph? In resignation? I made the painting many years ago. Brad is a silent pres- ence in our home, the third child, the outlier. Our blood is closest to his. We are the ones who got away. He is hooked by an invisible line to all of us. As an infant and toddler Brad didnt meet Moms eyes or want to cuddle. He was solemn, plump, and precocious. He didnt speak until later, around two, but then he really took off. Our dentist once offered to pay him if he could shut up for fve whole minutes. From the time he was fve until eight or nine, he was obsessed with dinosaurs. Brad could rattle off their long complicated names without pause, though in other conversation he stuttered. Stegosaurus, of the many bony plates. Allosaurus, the meat eater. Pachy- cephalosaurus, the one with the hard skull. Archeopteryx, the early bird ancestor. There was no stopping him once he got started. My brother and I have long had an uneasy relationship. I am more easily provoked than my sister, and Brad and I have bickered for over a quarter century, picking at each others sore spots. I was less able to let him get away with things, with his outrageous statements, with his frequent taunts and insults. But we were allies once. Brad coined the phrase the pa- rental interrogators, which my sister Britta and I adopted. He did the best imitations of our cat hacking up a hairball: his back arched, his torso rippling as he pretended to vomit while Britta and I cheered him on. We played together, though our play usually involved battles. In the humid heat of Minnesota summers, I ran wild over the lawn, shrieking as my brother chased me with a green plastic Super Soaker. In the fall, we pelted each other with rotten crab apples. The apples exploded against our shoulders and chests, and marked our T-shirts with a galaxy of dark red blotches. Our skin beneath was marked with raised pink welts. Once Brad pilfered mounds of vegetable scraps and slimy banana peels from the compost bucket and hid them under the covers of my bed as a prank. He trailed after me as I went to my room, and his face lit up as I found the compost in my bed. In retaliation, I pulled out all the underwear I could fnd in his drawer, soaked it in the sink, and tossed it into the chest freezer, where it froze solid into a block of tighty whities. 47 As many autistic people do, Brad has some sensory over- load issues. When we sat at the dinner table, if a knife or fork scraped against a plate, he shivered and hunched his shoulders up, tilted his head to one side, and squeezed his eyes shut. Once in a while when I was mad at him, I stabbed a potato with unnecessary vigor so the fork tines skidded across the plate. I watched his reaction from under lowered eyelids. When Brad was fve and I was seven, I came home from school to my mothers set face. Brad hid behind her back. Beth, your bird is dead, she told me as gently as possible. I dropped my backpack and stared at her. Brad just wanted to give Cheeper a drink of water, honey. He didnt understand. Brad had taken the canary from his cage that morning, thinking he looked thirsty. I had been so proud of teaching Cheeper to hop from his bar to my outstretched fnger. In retrospect, it seemed like a bad idea. With the bird in his pudgy fst, Brad went to the bathroom and flled the sink with water. Cheeper didnt stand a chance. Brad stuck the birds head under the water and held him there so he could get a good long drink. Now, looking back on this childhood tragedy, I try to parse the behavior. Is this something any fve-year-old would do? Or is this something that an autistic fve-year-old would do? What exactly is the autistic part of Brad? How much does autism defne a person? Is it worthwhile to try to normalize an autistic person, to train the autism out of him, so he behaves like any other socially well adapted human being? How much do my parents expect Brad to change? Mom and Dad have tried for years to school him in socially accept- able behavior, always thinking ahead to his future. No loud belching in public, Brad! Do you hear other people doing that? They knew that things that are forgiven in children are less easily forgiven in adults. My parents are proud of all of their children and the choices weve made. They were game when my sister decided to major in art in college, instead of becoming a doctor and supporting us in our old age, as my mom half-joked. On a scale of left versus right-brained, Britta falls in the middle, between my brother and I. She is the most competent; how- ever she is also the clumsiest. I can imagine her in surgery, dropping scalpels and slopping fuids around, and nurses looking sidelong at each other. Art seems like the better choice. My parents were supportive when I decided to trav- el to the Occupied Palestinian Territories indefnitely. When I fell in love and considered marrying a Palestinian man, they traveled to the West Bank to meet him and his family and had a grand old time. Well honey, you have a tough decision to make, they said before fying home laden with homemade apricot jam and Turkish coffee. This May, my brother hopes to graduate from St. Cloud State University with a degree in hydrology. He is the most left-brained of the three of us, and sees the world in a strict- ly practical, scientifc manner. He has no use for the arts or humanities, and belittles Brittas and my choices every chance he gets. What kind of a job can an English major get? he asks me. Its a good question. Lame-ass hippies, he calls us. Affectionately, or so I choose to believe. I can remember only one time my brother ever told me I love you. As with any sibling, my feelings for my brother are a tan- gled mess of tenderness, annoyance, and ferce protective loyalty. There were always differences, but we overlooked them. Its just Brad. Its just our family. Thats the way we are. Autism gets a lot of press these days, perhaps because so many kids have it. As of 2008, one in every eighty-eight children were diagnosed as on the autism spectrum, and the numbers seem to be increasing. Scientists are not sure what causes autism, whether it is genetic or environmental or both. There is debate about higher levels of seratonin or neurotransmitters in the brains of autistic people. For a while people talked about vaccines as the culprit. Before that, people blamed it on frigid mothers. The upshot is, no one knows. However, Ive heard autism called an epi- demic, an epidemic with an unknown cause and imperfect treatment. Society is scrambling to adapt itself to these children. Schools have behavior modifcation programs. The internet is awash with diets which supposedly cure autism. Parents of autistic children are rabid in their pursuit of a cure. The New York Times even lists Broadway show- ings of autism-friendly plays, designed to alert parents as 48 to when loud noises or bright lights will occur, so that they will have time to hustle their children to the lobby. There are even iPad apps for autism, to assist non-verbal autistic people with communication. I didnt realize how culturally widespread autism was until I was in a check-out line a few years ago at a department store. The clerk asked me, as she rang up my purchase, Would you like to contribute to the Autism Research Foundation? I stared at her, then blurted, My brother is autistic. Oh, she said, and beamed. Is your brother a special per- son? No, hes kind of an asshole, I said, then contributed ten dollars and hurried away from her shocked face. There are a lot of programs out there to help autistic kids, its true. But what about the generation of autistic kids who have grown up? What services exist to aid them in the transition to the real world? Once I saw a play about an autistic boy. He worked in an amusement park, and a roller-coaster snaked around the set. The boy befriended his coworkers, who accepted him despite his quirks. I sat in the darkened audience, arms crossed, stared at the boy in the lights on stage. Brad sat two seats down from me. The boy in the play was different from Brad, but he had the same kind of lack of expression on his face. He moved with jerky motions of arms and legs. He played the part sensitively, and didnt try to make the boy grotesque or stupid. It was a good play, and I stood at the end and clapped with the rest of the audience as the lights came on. Brad was al- ready shoving his arms into the sleeves of his coat, his head down. Then the actors came on stage for their bows. The actor who played the autistic boy came out last, and bowed to whistles and cheers. He rose from his fnal bow, I stopped clapping, and stared. He had shed his autism, slipped out of it like it was a skin hed molted. It was gone, and he was normal, his movements smooth, his smile full, his eyes meeting those of the crowd. I burst into tears. He is angry, my brother. He has been angry for a long time. I remember his fearful rage one day ffteen years ago as he tried to open our houses wooden front door, which had swollen in the summer heat and was too large for its frame. He hauled at the doorknob. Son of a bitch, he muttered, then repeated the curse loud- er. I heard him from the kitchen and went to help. He ham- mered his clenched hands against the door. He kicked and growled in his rage. As I approached, his fying fst punched through the window next to the door. Shards few. His hand was lanced with red, and a tiny glinting chip sliced my arm. I had to sit down, dizzy, as hot blood ran down my elbow. Im not autistic, he has repeated over and over again through the years. His voice crescendos. Im not autistic. This winter and spring, he is completing his senior project for his university degree. He has taken calculus, advanced math, and science courses. He spends his time deep in equa- tions and data. And worrying. We do too. Weekends, he drives from St. Cloud to the tiny town where our family lives. Dad helps him with his homework. At night, Brad cant sleep so he paces through the house, mut- tering, his footsteps dull thuds on the hardwood foor. He is lanky, with frequently greasy brown hair, small eyes behind smeared glasses, with a tendency to pick through his hair for skin fakes. His stride swings at the hips, like my Dads, except exaggerated, more stiff. He looks normal though, like any unkempt college kid. Sometimes at night he becomes so angry; he goes to my parents bedroom and stands in the doorway and tells them, over and over, that they should have forced him to take math earlier in high school, that his public education was terrible, that he shouldnt have been put in special ed. All these things contributed to where he is now, seven years spent in completing a degree that does not guarantee him a job, a future, a life. My parents lie in bed and listen to his rants. They have learned not to defend themselves, as this only enrages him further. They tuck themselves under the blankets and wait for their son to be done. Many years ago I dreamt I was livid, so angry with my brother that I somehow knocked him down and accidentally smashed his head into the ground. He didnt move. After a moment I reached down and cradled his head. The back of it was pulpy. His glasses were gone, and his eyes were blank. I woke up sick to my stomach. He is the vulnerable one, and I know my role. I must be his protector, not his enemy. I divide the world into two classes: those who get Brad, who joke with him, who treat him like a human being, and those who dont. My dark dream, I think, hints at an unspo- ken fear: that I am one of those who dont get him, that I ignore him out of shame, and dont let him be himself. 49 I too am angry. I want things to be different. I want my brother to know what love is. I want people to listen to him. I want him to have a good life. I want him to have friends. What will happen to him? My mother and I ask each other this question each time we talk on the phone. Will he fnd a job after he graduates? Is there some kind-hearted employer out there, somewhere, who will overlook his hygiene, his rudeness, his slow pace, his black and white view of the world, his occasional outbursts of rage? When he isnt seething or muttering dark imprecations about his parents and the public education system and the world in general, Brad knows what he wants. POETRY I want a job, he says. I dont want to live in the base- ment of my parents house for the next twenty years. And I want to get laid, he says, grinning. My mom thinks that everyone has some autism in them. It is a spectrum disorder, after all, running from the savants to high functioning Aspergers individuals to non-verbal people. We all have diffculty at times interpreting facial expressions. Sometimes we founder in social situations. My dad and I both focus so intently on what we are doing, we block out the world around us. Time passes with no rec- ollection. We look up from our computers, we blink at the faded daylight, we stretch. What will happen? We ask it over and over. JOSEPH R. ONEILL
The Shed and I Blanketed in a bed of wild roses, the weathered shed appears to sleep. Though while standing in a meadow of grass, a vigil it now does keep. For now the structure of that shed lies as fragile as myself. Like a book never read and placed upon the shelf. Yes, once my life had served a purpose, like that weathered old shed once did. I was once but a simple shelter where quaint dreams and memories were hid. A safe haven where one could run, among the splendor of wild roses. The beauty now is that we both still stand with a door that never closes. For this shed and I are opened to the elements of this earth. Though protected by a blanket of roses, That never judges the value of our worth.
50 POETRY MARTIN ALTMAN
Ive Become a Single Note that Cant Be Sung 1. Caruso found the passage from diaphragm to lips, Past larynx, anaerobic inch. Voice crawls along the esophageal road Up mucus lining from utterances home. 2. Voice is the visage of the larynx, Larynx the vessel of the voice. The throat is a hoop of fre, Voice the tiger jumps through it. 3. Vacuum is the soil of the root of speech, Silence is the rivulet that shrouds each word, The breath between each utterance is heard. Breaths together are a silent speech, Breath is motion out of reach. 4. My whole body a mouth of limbs. My voice a corpse. My voice-box a coffn. Yet this mute got up and danced, Like Ezekiels bones. 5. The bird extends its arms to me Thin twig snapped by the cold. What can I offer But the dream of fight? SHERYL L. NELMS
April Evening at Lake Ponsitte the wind has relaxed the sun gone down sitting cross-legged on the wooden dock I listen to the surround sound of frogs rippling along the moonlit shore 51 NICOLE JANKOWSKI
Art Theyve all gone to look at the mummies So it is just my boy and me And Diego Rivera and the limestone foors that bounce his contented shrieks all around Detroit Industry. Sooner than usual, the exhibition becomes him and a school group is noticing the odd shape he makes, his color and lines wondering, what is he trying to say? But my boys eyes are pressed together tight, His face tilted to the skylight Where a cacophony of color and inescapable warmth collide in his frontal lobe in some great collage of being. And abruptly Rivera and the birth of manufacturing go pale the luminous breath of yellow sunlight is paler still to the view of my boy gazing up with the art behind his eyes. KELLY MORRIS
Some Bells Should Ring you were born on Easter toes small as peas, hands clawing the air my womb collapsing with the sudden emptiness blood spreading like night beneath me please God youd think at least some bells should ring fourteen days and I signed the papers stepped out into sunlight that melted over me like butter my breasts still weeping my womb still bleeding your hands, Im sure, still reaching please God youd think at least some bells should ring 52 FICTION ESCAPE TO DHARAMSALA
JOHN NORRIS T hat October night, twenty-eight of us hid under a tarpaulin in the back of an old truck on its way to the Tibet-Nepal border. I knew no one else. Those with friends and family huddled in knots, secure that the roar of the motor drowned their private conversations from eaves- droppers. But I read their lips. They chattered and chuckled about where they were staying in Katmandu and what plans they had. Everyone seemed happysafe, they believed, under the tarpaulin.
We were on the road headed southwest from Lhasa about four hours, when the driver slammed on the brakes. The truck jerked to a stop. Whats happening, Mother? said the little girl opposite me.
Shh! her mother said, and placed her hand gently over her daughters mouth. The girls brown pupils swelled and darted back and forth. The truck left the highway, ambled over rough terrain, and then stopped again. I peeked through a small hole in the tarpaulin, saw bright light, and heard voices shouting in Mandarin. I prayed to Buddha and to His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Above me, the tarpaulin quivered. A man whipped it off and swooped a rife barrel over us. Everyone, get off! he shouted.
Four Chinese Liberation Army jeeps formed a rectangle, corralled the truck into it, and shone their beams at it. In front of each jeep stood two Chinese border guards in cam- oufage uniforms with rifes aimed at us. To my left, I spied two Tibetan border guards, their rifes also aimed at us. We jumped down. Line up in single fle! the guards shouted. The mother and daughter stood frst in line; I stood next to them. A guard yanked the driver from the truck and pushed him into line at the far end. We all lowered our heads. The sergeant, tall, with oily, caramel skin, strode to the middle of our line. Get down on your knees, he shouted at us, place your hands behind your back and keep them there! We did as he ordered. Then he marched up to the mother frst in line. Where are you going? he demanded in Mandarin. She glanced up at him. Were going to see His Holiness the Dalai Lama, she replied in Tibetan. With the butt of his rife, he struck her twice across the head. She collapsed, bleeding, to the ground. Her daughter cried out, Mama!
And you, the sergeant said to me next, where are you going? I kept my head low to the ground. Im going to see His Holiness the Dalai Lama, I answered in Mandarin.Were all going to see His Holiness the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama is a bad person! the sergeant shouted down the line. What will you do when you see him and he 53 cannot even feed you? If you stay here in Tibet, you will have lots of food. Were going to see His Holiness the Dalai Lama, I said. The sergeant turned to his men. Search the Tibetans, re- move their IDs and all their possessions, and then herd them back onto the truck. Put their driver into the back of a jeep.
Once we were all back on the truck, a Chinese guard jumped into the cab and drove us back to Lhasa. A jeep followed closely behind. I dabbed the mothers cuts with water, applied an herbal ointment from a vial the guards had not confscated, bound her forehead with a handkerchief, and then prayed.
Whats your name? I asked the little girl. Kamala, she replied, and nestled her head in her mothers neck. I am Bayarmaa, the mother said. And you are? Chenpo, I said.
Bayarmaa was short, lean, and pretty, and, like Kamala, wore a European jacket, shirt, and trousers. I asked if her husband was on the truck. Hes in prison, said Bayarmaa. The Chinese authorities believe hes a member of the Free Tibet Movement. He told me to fee Tibet with Kamala and live with my parents in Katmandu. Theyve been exiled there since 1959. Will you be living in Katmandu? No, Im going to see His Holiness the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala. In Lhasa, the Chinese border guards turned us over to uni- formed Chinese jail guards who separated the men from the women into different rooms. The guards removed my belt and then placed me in a cell with nine other men, a mix of Chinese and Tibetans. The guards gave each of us a bowl of raw noodles, the only food we received nightly during our stay. Occasionally, some relatives of the Chinese prisoners brought in rice and vegetables which they shared with us Tibetans. In a corner of the cell sat a pot, our communal toi- let. That frst night and thereafter, I slept only intermittently, fat on the foor, fully clothed, with no sheet over me. The next day, two of the guards, one in uniform, the other in plain clothes, handcuffed me behind my back and led me to another room. I glanced at the plain clothes guard who was short and burly with a shaved head and a black mous- tache hugging his pursed lips. What are you staring at? he shouted and kicked me hard in the groin. I groaned and collapsed to my knees. The guards lifted me up, stripped me down to the waist and then interrogated me. Whats your name? said the uniformed guard, lanky, with pale skin. Chenpo Dolma, I said.
How old are you? Twenty-fve. Where are you going? To see His Holiness the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lhama is a bad person, the uniformed guard said. He wants to separate Tibet from China. Why would you want to go see him? His Holiness the Dalai Lhama is Tibets spiritual and po- litical leader. How can that be? said the guard China annexed Tibet. Tibet is now a province within China. Your leader is Jiang Zemin.
My only leader is His Holiness the Dalai Lama, I said. The short, burly guard pushed me onto the seat of a chair and forced my head down. Keep it lowered, he ordered. Then, using electric cattle prongs, he poked along the top of my bare back. I winced with each jab. (Later, the other prisoners told me the top of my back was dotted with red, disk-like sores. To this day I bear the scars.) The uniformed guard lifted my head. Where are you go- ing? he said. 54 I ground my teeth together. To see His Holiness the Dalai Lama. The guards led me back to the cell, uncuffed me, and threw me onto the foor. The next day, they took me to the same room and repeated the questions. They also asked who was going with me to Dharamsala. The Chinese border guards stopped us. I was in jail for the past two weeks. Anil pointed to the feces caked on the bottom of my trou- sers. No shower, I bet, he said. Use mine, please. I showered then changed into the fresh clothes Anil gave me. Did you phone your two brothers and father and tell them the Chinese jailed you? Anil asked. Narayan and Sonam are herding yaks. I couldnt reach them. And your father? I didnt phone him. I dont want him to worry. He still thinks Im touring Tibet. And your sisters? Contacting them is not easy. They continue to work on a Chinese commune. How can I help? asked Anil. I need a place to stay, I said, till I fnd another driver to take me to the Tibet-Nepal border. The last driver cost me 800 Chinese yuan and he drove twenty-eight of us Tibetans straight into jail. If hes the driver I heard about from gossip in the streets, said Anil, Chinese authorities sent him to prison for two years. Anil let me sleep in his apartment, and I borrowed another thousand Chinese yuan from him. Daily I inquired in the streets for a driver. Finally, in late October, I found one, Shamar, a small, roly-poly man. For 900 Chinese yuan each, he was willing to drive me and other Tibetans in his truck to the Tibet-Nepal border.
The next night, forty-two Tibetans boarded Shamars truck. As I climbed up, I noticed Bayarmaa and Kamala huddled in a far corner. They waved at me to come to them. Impos- sible, I thought, and shook my head no. The forty-two of us were all so crammed into the back of the truck that all the younger single men and women had to stand and lean against the sides. My legs throbbed till they turned numb, and a torpor spread upwards till my whole body felt light, empty, as if I was a mere presence foating in space. We were on the road six hours, when Shamar stopped the truck, got out, and lowered the back gate. Everyone get off! he shouted.
My legs throbbed till they turned numb, and a torpor spread upwards till my whole body felt light, empty, as if I was a mere presence foating in space. No one, I said. Have you brothers or sisters? No. What are your parents names, and where do they live? Theyre both dead, I replied. At the end of two weeks, the guards took my photo, and warned me, If you ever try to cross the Tibet-Nepal border again, you will be arrested and imprisoned for life. Then they released me and the other Tibetan refugees onto the streets of Lhasa. Bayarmaa and Kamala called to me. Bayarmaa placed her hand gently on my arm. Thank you, Chenpo, she said, for healing my head woundsyoure a monk, arent you? I was. Kamala wiggled her index fnger and bade me bend down toward her. When I did, she kissed my bald head. I had many cousins throughout Tibet. One of them, Anil, was my age, and lived in an apartment in Lhasa. Id bor- rowed money from him to get to India. I knocked on his door. Chenpo! he said, and hugged me. Come in. What are you doing still in Lhasa? I thought by now youd be phon- ing me from Dharamsala. 55 Were Chinese border guards stopping us again? I wondered. Would I be arrested again, and this time sent to prison for life? I prayed. Chinese soldiers, I whispered back. I peered over the top of the boulder. About two hundred yards ahead of us, on the north shore, stood two tents with four armed Chinese soldiers bantering around a campfre, their jeeps parked nearby. The shortest soldier walked to the river, rolled up his shirt sleeves, bent down, and splashed water on his face. On each of his arms, I spied a tattoo of a writhing dragon. The soldier glanced around, stared for a while east along the river bank, then walked back to his comrades. We have no choice, I whispered to Bayarmaa, but to stay here till late at night when the Chinese soldiers are asleep in their tents. Only then can we continue. Bayarmaa pulled Kamala close to her. We must be very quiet, Bayarmaa whispered. Remember the frst trip, when the truck stopped and we heard Chinese soldiers shouting? Kamala nodded. We had to be very quiet then, and we must now, said Bayarmaa. In the late afternoon, I peered again over the boulder. Only two of the soldiers sat around the campfre. Where were the others? I wondered. On patrol? What would I, weaponless, doall of us doif even one of the soldiers walked our way and caught us hiding? Buddhism and His Holiness the Dalai Lama preached non-violence. Was I willing, there- fore, simply to let them arrest me and return me to Lhasa and prison? Then, in the distance, I spotted two of the soldiers returning by foot to their camp. Would they patrol past it as well? If so, they were bound to spot us. I alerted the others, picked up a small rock in each hand, and waited . . . Minutes passed. The soldiers did not come our way. I lay against the boulder and splayed my legs out onto the cold, hard ground. A phalanx of wisps of clouds, white like an eagles down feathers, drifted eastward across the light blue sky. I prayed. I prayed, but I didntcouldntsleep. The unmarried men took shifts watching the soldiers, but even when it was not my turn, I watched the Chinese. Well after dark, when I saw the lights extinguish in the sol- diers tents, I gathered the refugees together and told them we couldnt take a chance crossing the river so close to the Chinese soldiers camp. Wed have to retrace our steps part- ly and cross upstream where the soldiers, if alarmed, were unlikely to notice us.
When we arrived upstream to a shallower fow in the river, I bent down and encouraged Kamala to hop on my back. I swung my hands behind to cradle her then waded across. I pointed at the sky. A full moon, creamy like yaks milk, mottled like blue cheese, stared down at us. Why did you stop, Shamar? everyone demanded. Walk the rest of the way, said Shamar. Good luck, every- one! He climbed back into his truck and drove off.
Everyone grumbled. We had with us only the clothes and shoes we wore. In Chinese army backpacks, we carried tsampa, butter, dried yak meat, bottles of waterlater replenished from the many rivers we crosseda few cher- ished possessions, and plastic sheets. Abandoned like this we have much to fear, an older, bearded man among us said. I know these mountains. Chi- nese soldiers are everywhere hunting for feeing Tibetans to capture and return to Lhasa, maybe even to jail or prison. What do we do then? another elder asked. We do what Shamar told us to do, I replied. We walk the rest of the way. We must walk the whole night. Keep your fashlights in your knapsacks. I pointed at the sky. A full moon, creamy like yaks milk, mottled like blue cheese, stared down at us. The moon is fashlight enough to guide our steps. We walked in pairs and passed a small village of four huts, slivers of candlelight blinking through their front windows. Tempted to visit we were, but dared not. We also passed a nomad asleep under a yak skin blanket at the foot of a boulder while his fock of yaks and sheep rested or grazed on the grass about him. I thought about Narayan and Sonam now shepherding their focks in Amdo Province, and about how I helped them when I was young; my father Tashi, too, before his stomach pains gnawed at him and he retired to Maiwa village. The next day we were about to ford a river when I ordered everyone to hush, hide behind a wall of rocks, and keep hidden. Bayarmaa and Kamala crouched down beside me behind a boulder Whats wrong? Bayarmaa whispered. 56 The water, waist-deep, gnawed at my bones. I stumbled over slimy, slippery stones coating the river bottom, and the undertow tugged at my legs, yanked me off balance, and lured me downstream. Bayarmaa followed closely behind, her hands extended should Kamala loosen her grip. When we got to the other side, I set Kamala down. Then we headed southwest into the Himalayas where the knee-deep snow and thin air sucked life out of our every exertion, and the cold burrowed like a leech through our clothes, numbing us. I glanced behind me. Little Kamala was stuck in a drift. frst truck. The shortest soldier waved a large sheet of plas- tic in his hand, and pointed to the Himalayas. Then the sol- diers got back in their jeeps, and led the convoy east along the highway. I crawled backwards to the waiting refugees. The Chinese border guards found shreds of our plastic sheets, I said. They know were somewhere in this area. Theyre looking for us right now. We must move faster, yet still stay hidden as much as possible. We stayed high up on the ridge, trekked farther west, till we came to a smaller mountain slope, rested on the summit till dark, then climbed down to the road and slipped up the other side of a hill. Northern Nepal lay ahead of us. We trekked four more days into the interior. When we slept, occasionally a woman would scream out and startle us. Had the Chinese soldiers found us? I wondered. I checked my arms and legs. Two ticks had bitten into me. Their oval bodies swelled with blood to the size of pimples. Only salt poured over them will force them to release their grip, an elder said. Unfortunately, none of us had brought salt, so we gripped the ticks legs underneath their swollen bellies, tugged at them till they ripped from our skin, and then freed the ticks back into the grass. Ahead lay a Nepalese village. We paid for food and clothes with Chinese yuan hidden in our tubes of toothpaste, be- hind our belts, or under our hat bands. One of the villagers told us we could take a bus to Katmandu, but warned us it stopped at every village on the way to pick up more passen- gers. That afternoon, we boarded the bus and headed south. But at the next stop, three local Nepalese police detained us. Where are you going? the sergeant, a husky man, asked us. We all placed our hands together as in prayer, bowed our heads, and shouted in chorus, His Holiness the Dalai Lama! His Holiness the Dalai Lama!
The sergeant ordered the driver to take us to the local po- lice station. I thought, hes going to contact Chinese border guards! Theyll arrest us, return us to Lhasa, and Ill go to prison for life! When we got to the station, the sergeant interrogated each one of us separately. Where are you going? he asked me. To see His Holiness the Dalai Lhama, I replied. The next morning, we approached the Tibet-Nepal border. The air felt warmer. We breathed more easily. Hop on my back, Bayarmaa said to her. But even without Kamala, Bayarmaa plodded through the snow, gasped for breath, and stopped often to rest. I knelt down. Up you go, I said to Kamala. She scaled my back, hugged my neck, and gently kicked my rump. Giddyap! she said. When we were not trudging through deep drifts, we slept for just a few hours during those two days and nights in the mountains. The second night, when it stormed, all of us wrapped plastic sheets snugly around our shoes and trou- sers. Some of us fashioned tents: A husband and wife blew up a large plastic sheet, crawled inside and tied the ends in a knot, forming a warm, snug cocoonand slept soundly. The next morning, we approached the Tibet-Nepal border. The air felt warmer. We breathed more easily. Yet we could not relax: Chinese authorities routinely paid Nepalese border guards to detain Tibetan refugees. We never knew whom to trust, especially men in uniforms. We climbed almost to the top of a hill, when I heard the whir of motors on the other side. I raised my hand. Hide, everyone! I said. Hide! Hurry! I lay fat on my stomach, waited till everyone was safely hidden, then crawled to the edge. In the distance, I spied a convoy of four Chinese Army trucks speeding toward two Chinese Army jeeps parked at the base of the hill. Two sol- diers got out of each jeep and approached the driver of the 57 The sergeant got on the phone, and then turned to three of his men. Escort the Tibetans by bus to Katmandu, he said. I sighed. Thank you, I said, and bowed. Six hours later, we arrived in Katmandu. Two expatri- ate women from The Tibetan Reception Committee were waiting for us at the bus station. They led us on foot to the committees headquarters, fed us tsampa and butter tea, and gave each of us 500 rupees. With part of it, I bought a bus ticket to Dharamsala, India. The bus would leave the next day. That night, I slept in the Tibetan Reception dormitory with my fellow refugees. But I could hardly remove my shoes. My feet had swollen, and I was in pain. When I fnally eased my shoes and socks off, I squirmed; blisters cov- ered the soles of my feet, and my toenails were black and cracked. A week later, they fell out. Next morning, I hugged Bayarmaa and Kamala good-bye, boarded the bus, travelled south into India, then headed northwest to Dharamsala in Himachal Pradesh Province.
Eventually, I arrived at the headquarters of His Holiness the Dalai Lama. A long, tall, red fence with a yellow gate cor- ralled his house. It rained that day, but I sat cross-legged on the ground in front and waited. Editors note: Escape to Dharamsala is fction but is based on the actual experience of Thupten Choedup, a former Tibetan monk, and a friend of the author, John Nor- ris. Choedup has a rheutomatological autoimmune disorder called ankylosing spondylitius (AS). When it is active and faring, AS can cause extreme pain and loss of mobility. Choedup had a genetic predisposition to this disorder, and while it probably would have manifested itself sometime later in his life, it was in fact, triggered and exacerbated by the extremely harsh physical conditions and diffculties Choedup experienced during the journey described in this story. When Choedup frst emigrated to Ontario, Canada his physical condition was extremely poor. There was a very long period of testing and trial and error with treatments and medications before his condition was correctly diag- nosed and the right combination of medications and supple- ments was found to help diminish, and fnally, to eliminate most of his symptoms. Choedup is doing well now. He en- joys walking outdoors, summer and winter, and swimming at the YMCA. He and his roommate also travel together extensively, enjoying the opportunity to visit other coun- tries. Choedup is an accomplished photographer and enjoys taking photographs to chronicle their travels. POETRY CLARE E. WILLSON
Speed On
Elbows piston, sweat beads. Muscles burn, faces blur, cheer her silver Reeboks as she sprints the fnal yards. Dance foor throbs. Tipsy hips sway, her platforms stomp. Tossing hair, cheeks afush, neath dizzying disco ball. Taut muscles stride stony forest trails. Myriad songs, sweet scents, creatures rustle. She inhales Natures magic. Lemon dawn nudges her lashes. Flutter wide. Stretches. Right leg. Right arm. Yawns wide, glances over. Yes, wheels are close enough. 58 POETRY JESSICA GOODY
Panic Attack in Neonatal ICU This is where it begins: Can you imagine lying In a glass coffn, like Snow White Strung with tubes and Wires like tin can telephones, Strings of Chinese frecrackers, Tucked into conduits and tethers? I am only earthbound By the sterile rubber, the plastic, the glass Hoses linking me to my cell like a pet, leashed and caged. Some tubes fat as tunnels, others noodle-thin. Intravenous, oxygen, shunt, catheter, lung pumper, pacemaker. Can you imagine An extended sense of awareness, The way a cats whiskers tingle And his fur rises When its about to rain? Prone, supine, straining. It must be how Helen Keller felt, Black blindness, all-encompassing. The beeping Of monitors, thermometers, air tubes; The hiss of artifcial breath, raspy and stale. Every bodily function Measured and rated. Until you become your own timer, a human clock, regulated and regular, nervous and precise. Most sinister is this aural interloper which drives you desperate for silence, for succor. A Chinese water torture of sounds: slight, steady, constant. Until you blinkand finch in anticipation of the sound. When? Closer, closer. The expectation leaves you twitching. The quickened breath, the stiffened refexes of fear. Curling shrimp-like, fetally into oneself for protection. 59 ALEXANDRINA SERGIO
Glad You Asked Hows your mother doing? Fine. Her memorys going, but she still recalls the important things. Overheard conversation I cant remember what I had for breakfast this morning but when you asked if there wasnt a boya jockwho was at school with us his namewas it Rick Martino? the taut quarterback was there swift through the waffes or was it pancakes. Tall he was, quite dark spare but well built a rare, knee-melting smile. I dont remember the eggs if thats what they were, or maybe Cheerios. Oatmeal? Does it matter? We neednt worry about the upcoming (Again? So soon?) birthday when our minds their treads well below the half penny still save a place at the table for the lean dark boys.
Previously published in The Connecticut River Review Connecticut Poetry Society, 2012. 60 REVIEW THE INTERSECTION OF TWO LIVES: A WOMAN AND A WOODLAND SNAIL
Review of The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating, Elisabeth Tova Bailey, Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2010
GAIL WILLMOTT W inner of two prestigious awards, the 2011 John Burroughs Medal and the 2012 William Saroyan International Prize for Writing, Elisabeth Tova Baileys The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating is a beautifully exquisite story combining a memoir of illness with the curi- ous intricacies of the life of a snail. This book is divided into six parts, consisting of twenty-two chapters, bracketed by a prologue and an epilogue. Each of the parts and chapters is introduced by an intriguing and often beautiful quotation from a physician, nurse, natural- ist, novelist, or poet that effectively draws the reader further into the story. Baileys style of writing is elegantly simple and infused with a poetic quality. Additionally, she presents the natural history material, an integral part of this story, in a way that is very accessible to any reader who lacks scien- tifc aptitude. The story begins when, during a brief trip to Europe, Bai- ley becomes sick with severe fu-like symptoms. Upon her return home, her illness grows steadily worse and becomes totally debilitating. Soon she grows so weak that she is un- able to sit up in bed and she remains confned to bed for one year. In order to receive the assistance and care she needs, the author is moved from the rich environment of her 18th century farm house to a studio apartment with its sterile, stark, white walls. Not only is her body sick, but, complicated by homesickness and the absence of the full and active life she had known, her spirit becomes ill as well. Bailey struggles to stay connected to life, a near impossibil- ity under the circumstances. Then, one day a friend of hers returns from a walk with a pot of wild violets into which she has placed a live snail. So begins Baileys adventures with this tiny creature, an adventure that at frst, she under- took reluctantly: Why I wondered, would I enjoy a snail? What on earth would I do with it? I couldnt get out of bed to return it to the woods. It was not of much inter- est, and if it was alive, the responsibility especially for a snail, something so uncalled for was overwhelming . . . . But what about this snail? What would I do with it? As tiny as it was, it had been going about its day when it was picked up. What right did my friend and I have to disrupt its life? Though I couldnt imagine what kind of life a snail might lead. (4 & 7) However, after only a few weeks of companionship, Bailey fnds that she is indeed attachedshe and the snail are offcially cohabitating. One evening, as the snail is eat- ing its dinner, Bailey listens intently: I could hear it eating. The sound was of someone very small munching celery continuously . . . . The tiny, intimate sound of the snails eat- ing gave me a distinct feeling of companionship and shared space. (12) Baileys feelings evolve from reluctance, to genuine curios- ity, to concern, when one evening the snail overindulges in an serving of wetted down corn meal and cornstarch, becoming very sick that night, presumably due to indiges- tion. Bailey says that it was a long night for both of them, as she worried if the snail would recover. Much later in their relationship, in the chapter titled Bereft, Bailey awakens one morning and after a painstaking search, discovers that the snail appears to have vanished. She writes: 61 Illness isolates; the isolated become invisible; the invisible become forgotten. But the snailthe snail kept my spirit from evaporating. Between the two of us, we were a society all our own, and that kept isolation at bay. The snail was missing, and as the day waned, I was bereft. (132) As her story unfolds, we learn more about the severity of Baileys physical limitations: Occasionally, when the snail slept and an urgent need for changeno matter the costswept through me, I would slowly roll from my right side over to my left side. This simple act caused my heart to beat wildly and erratically, but the reward was a whole new vista . . . . Then, exhausted and empty from my audacious adventure, Id make the slow roll back toward the kingdom of the ter- rarium and the tiny life it concealed. (42-43) In some ways, the authors mental and emotional struggles, her feelings of being cut off from the rest of the world, are even more devastating. She writes: I eagerly awaited visitors, but the anticipation and the extra energy of greetings caused a numbing ex- haustion . . . . Still, my friends were golden threads randomly appearing in the monotonous fabric of my days . . . . They would worry about wearing me out, but I could also see that I was a reminder of all they feared: chance, uncertainty, loss, and the sharp edge of mortality. Those of us with illnesses are the holders of the silent fears of those with good health. (38-40) (It is precisely these fears that underlie an awkwardness and a distancing that often occurs between those with disabili- ties and those who see themselves as normal and healthy.) Once again, Baileys tiny companion flls a void and brings her a sense of calm: As the snails world grew more familiar, my own human world become less so; my species was so large, so rushed and confusing . . . .it was as if they didnt know what to do with their energy. They were so careless with it . . . . Whereas the energy of my human visitors wore me out, the snail inspired me. Its curiosity and grace pulled me further into its peaceful and solitary world. Watching it go about its life in the small ecosystem of the terrarium put me at ease. (39 & 41) As the title suggests, this book is flled with all sorts of interesting facts and observations as well comparisons be- tween humans and snails in which humans are often found wanting.
In The Violet-Pot Adventures, Bailey describes the initial getting acquainted phase of the snails stay during which she learns some basic facts about her small companion. For instance, snails are nocturnal and intrepid explorers. And when munching on paper they leave square holes. Also, rather than fresh salad, they prefer to eat withered, half- dead fowers: One has to respect the preferences of anoth- er creature, no matter its size, and I did so gladly. (13) In A Green Kingdom, Bailey realizes that though the pot of violets has worked well as an initial habitat, she wants the snail to have a safer and more natural home. A glass aquarium is transformed into a terrarium flled with familiar plants and soil found in the woods. She describes moving day for the snail: Within moments of moving into this rich king- dom, the snail came partway out of its shell. Its tentacles quivered with interest and it set off to investigate the new terrain. It crawled along the dead log, drank water out of the mussel shell, in- vestigated the mosses, climbed up the terrariums glass side, then chose a dark, private corner and went to sleep nestled in some moss. (28) In Juxtapositions, the reader is shown a few comparisons between human and snail anatomy. For example, Bailey explains, snails have thousands of teeth, in many rows, one behind the other. As the front row is worn down, a new row is added at the back of the mouth and the whole structure (radula) moves gradually forward, a very effcient process: 62 With only thirtytwo adult teeth, which had to last the rest of my life, I found myself experienc- ing tooth envy toward my gastropod companion. It seemed far more sensible to belong to a species that had evolved natural tooth replacement than to belong to the one that had developed the dental profession. (49-50) The reader also learns about the architectural marvel of spi- ral shells and the production of slime, a vital substance that serves many needs in the life of a snail. In The Cultural Life, the reader learns that wild snails live in colonies in terms of proximity but they each still lead separate lives (with the exception of mating). And if conditions in their surroundings become too harsh, snails have the ability to hibernate in the winter and estivate in the summer (slowing bodily processes down) until conditions improve. Bailey observes that it would be convenient for humans to have a similar ability: How wonderful it would be if we humans with illnesses could simply go dormant while the sci- entifc world went about its snail-paced research, and wake only when new, safe medical treatments were available. But why limit such an amazing ability to the ill? When a country faced famine, what if the entire population could go dormant to get through a hard time in a safe and peaceful way until the next growing season came around? (109) In Love and Mystery, Bailey introduces readers to a few of the basics regarding the love life of woodland snails, including that as hermaphrodites they can take on either gender role as circumstances require. In Familiar Territory, Bailey tells of her mid-summer re- turn home with her dog, Brandy, and of her original snails release back into the woods from which it had come. Of her homecoming Bailey writes: The original snail and I had been fellow captives, but now we had both returned to our natural habitats . . . . I wondered how the snail was cop- ing in its native woods. Though I was home, I was still not free from the boundaries of my illness. I thought of the terrariums limited space and how the snail had seemed content as it ate, explored, and fulflled a life cycle. This gave me hope that perhaps I, too, could still fulfll dreams, even if they were changed dreams . . . . Being home again was the next best thing to a cure . . . . (145-146) That frst winter of her return home, the one remaining off- spring of her original snail became her companion. Though, at frst, Bailey is unsure if she wants this small creature as a companion, the presence of the snail, did in fact, become absolutely vital to her. In a letter to one of her doctors, she writes: I would never have guessed what would get me through the past yeara woodland snail and its offspring. I honestly dont think I would have made it otherwise. Watching another creature go about its life . . . somehow gave me, the watcher, purpose too. If life mattered to the snail and the snail mattered to me, it meant something in my life mattered, so I kept on . . . Snails may seem like tiny, even insignifcant things compared to the wars going on around the world or a million other human problems, but they may well outlive our own species. (154) Many people have experienced the deep joy that having a pet to love and care for can bring to their lives. The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating is a beautiful verifcation of this im- portant truth. If you are nature lover and have ever experi- enced prolonged illness, disability, or confnement, you will love this book. However, having a disability or an illness is not a requirement for fnding pleasure in reading this book, and there is so much more in this story of the resilience of the human spirit to be discovered. It should also come as no surprise that The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating has been widely acclaimed within the disci- pline of medical humanities. It has been read and savored by doctors and other healthcare practitioners, as well as pa- tients, families, and caregivers. For more information about this and other related topics, as well as interviews with the author, visit www.elisabethtovabailey.net. 63 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES Martin Altman is an accountant. His work has appeared in Music in the Air (2013), an annual anthology by Outrider Press, Off the Rocks (2013), an annual LGBT anthology, Red Ochre LIT (2013), a mini-chapbook, and Boy Slut (2013), an online poetry website. Altman says, A stutterer from childhood, my poetry is concerned with speaking and hearing, breathing and cessation, connection, isolation, and silence. Beth Baker earned her M.S. from the University of Mon- tana in 2012. Her essays have appeared in Christian Science Monitor (2013), Terrain.org (2013), Punchnels ( 2012), and A Natural History of Now: Reports from the Edge of Nature (2012). Baker says, My brother is autistic and his disability has profoundly affected both himself and those who love him. Ashley Caveda is an adjunct professor at Butler University and an intake specialist at Neighborhood Christian Legal Clinic. Her work has appeared in Monkey Bicycle (2012), Ruminate Magazine (2012), and Superstition Review (2011 and 2013). She received The Haidee Forsyth Burkhardt Award for Creative Nonfction from The Ohio State Univer- sity in 2012. Caveda is quadriplegic as a result of a 1990 car accident. She says, I explore the idea of having a visible disability and an atypical body in a world that has been de- signed primarily for the able body. J.D. Chaney is a retired teacher, published novelist, and freelance writer. His stories have appeared in Western Di- gest, Aquila (England), Western and Eastern Treasures, Special Living, Good Old Days, Coal People, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and Tucumcari Literary Review. Chaney en- joys reading, running, and travel. Lawrence L. Emmert is a retired judge who served as district judge in Wyandot, Michigan from 1977 to 1998. He and his wife live in Michigan in the summer and Florida in the winter. Emmerts own experience with polio led him to write Paolos Balcony. He had a fction piece published in Ligourian in 2008. Denise Fletcher is a freelance writer and artist. Her work has appeared in journals in the U.S., Canada, and the U.K. She is the author of the chapbook, A Thread of Hope, and editor of the poetry anthology, The Seven Ages of Man. Fletchers disability is psychiatric in nature. I want to edu- cate others about disability issues in hope of social reform. Tony Gloeggler has managed group homes for people with developmental disabilities for more than 30 years. His po- ems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. One Wish Left, his frst full-length poetry collection, was published in 2000. The Last Lie was published in 2010. His new collection, Until the Last Light Leaves, will be pub- lished in 2014. Jessica Goody is a writer whose work has appeared in numerous blogs and anthologies. She has written two vol- umes of poetry and a mystery novella and is seeking their publication. Goody is a devoted environmental activist. Her disability is cerebral palsy. She says, Creativity is an outlet for emotions, a way to dream, to comfort, to inspire, and to emphasize the beauty in the world. Nicole Jankowski is a student at the University of Michi- gan, Dearborn and will receive her B.A. in English in 2015. Her articles on autism have appeared in Scary Mommy and Autism Around the Globe. Her three poem collection, Breakfast is for Wives, appeared in E-fction fve maga- zine. Jankowski received second prize in creative non-fc- tion for her essay, Autism is a Bird, from the University of Michigan. Her son is severely autistic. She says, I write because it makes the hard things easier to sayI speak for those around me who cannot speak because they too have a story worth telling. Bob Johnston is a retired research engineer and translator. His poems have appeared in The Lamp-Post and Kansas Quarterly and his short fction, Sprouts on the Rocks, ap- peared in Liquid Ohio (2002). Johnstons article, Selection, Care, and Feeding of Partners, was published in Australian Bridge (1983). Johnston, who began writing late in life, continues working on his memoirs and his great American novel. Suzanne Kamata is a university instructor, writer, and an American expatriate living in Japan. Her novels, Gadget Girl: The Art of Being Invisible and Screaming Divas, were published in 2013 and 2014. Kamata edited the anthology Love You to Pieces: Creative Writers on Raising a Child with Special Needs (2008). Her collection, The Beautiful One Has Come: Stories was published in 2011. Kamatas daughter has cerebral palsy and is deaf. Kamata says, I wanted to write stories that she would be interested in, and to present her as an interesting, complicated person because she has some diffculty expressing this herself. Sean Lause is a professor of English whose poetry has ap- peared in The Pedestal, Another Chicago Magazine, The Minnesota Review, and The Alaska Quarterly. Lause has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and is the win- ner of the Art Affair Poetry Award for 2012. Of himself, he says, I am a father, a widower, a teacher, and a writer. Kelly Morris is a freelance writer whose poetry has ap- peared in Cider Press Review (2006), Coal City Review (2007), Penwood Review (2008), and Transcendent Visions (2009). Morris disability is post-traumatic stress disorder. I am much more than a person with a disability. My dis- ability is an important part of me but its not all of me. Writ- ing poetry is how I best speak my truth. 64 Sheryl L. Nelms is an insurance broker and a writer whose work has appeared in Readers Digest, Modern Maturity, Poetry Now, and Chiron Review. Nelms has won the Schul- tz-Werth Research Award from South Dakota University and the Pegasus Award from Oklahoma Writers Federation. Nelms disability is Parkinsons. She describes herself, in part, as a poet/writer, painter, weaver, and an old dirt biker. John Norris taught high school for 29 years prior to his retirement. He loved writing short stories and poetry. His fction and poetry were published in several journals includ- ing Queens Quarterly, Weber Studies, The Prairie Journal, Idea Gems, Canadian Stories, The Storyteller Magazine, and Culture & Religion Review Journal. Sadly, Mr. Norris passed away suddenly in January 2014. Joseph R. ONeill has been incarcerated since 1994. Prior to that he lived a diverse life attending seminary, joining the navy, and working many jobs in the healthcare feld. Now, as an inmate, he enjoys making crafts, reading, and writing poetry. ONeill says if he is paroled someday he hopes to become involved with prison ministry. Sandy Palmer studied graphic design at The University of Akron and is a freelance artist working in colored pencil, marker, and pen and ink. She contributes to Kaleidoscope as a writer of visual artist profles and an illustrator, having joined the staff as art coordinator in 2002. Palmer is a full- time graphic design specialist at United Disability Services. Leslie Patterson is a writer whose short stories and per- sonal essays have appeared in Bellevue Literary Review (2005), Fourth Genre (2008), The Fish Anthology (2007), and Matter: 07 (2005). Her awards for writing include Tiny Lights Personal Essay Contest (frst prize) and the Tallgrass Writers Contest (second place). She says, As a writer of historical fction I want to provide a voice for people whose stories are seldom told in standard history books, such as women, children, racial minorities, the economically and educationally disadvantaged, as well as people with dis- abilities. Roger Pincus is a lawyer whose fction has been published in Souwester (2010), Fifth Wednesday Journal (2011), Pif Magazine (2011) and Natural Bridge (2013). He was a fnalist for the St. Lawrence Book Award (2011) and was nominated for the story South Million Writers Award. Pincus says, I write because I want to explore the human condition in the way that I fnd most meaningfulthrough particular characters experiencing acute challenges. Andrea Rosenhaft is a licensed clinical social worker who lives and practices in New York City. She deals with an on- going struggle with the eating disorder anorexia. She writes primarily on the topic of mental health and recovery. Alexandrina Sergio is the writer of two poetry collections, My Daughter is a Drummer in the Rockn Roll Band and Thats How The Light Gets In, published in 2009 and 2013. Her poetry has appeared in Connecticut River Review from 2008-2012 and in Caduceus from 2009-2012. She received frst place in the Connecticut Senior Poetry Contest, second place in the Dorman John Grace Poetry Contest, and third place in the Voices of Lincoln competition. Sergio says, I am excited by the words, the rhythms, the potential depth of communication, the artistry and the challenge of disci- pline with its need to pursue the worthy thought, the perfect metaphor, the apt simile. Carol Smallwood is a writer whose work has appeared in The Writers Chronicle, English Journal, Linq, and Drunken Boat. She has published more than four dozen books in- cluding Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing, and Teaching. Smallwood has two books forthcoming, Water, Earth, Air, Fire, and Picket Fences and Divining the Prime Meridian. She struggles with PTSD. Smallwood has founded and supports humane societies. Barbara Ellen Sorensen is a freelance writer and editor. She has published a chap book, Song from the Deep Middle Brain (2010), and a full-length poetry collection, Composi- tions of the Dead Playing Flutes (2013). She has published memoirs in Drunken Boat (2012) and So Spoke the Earth: An Anthology (2012). Sorensen has received a Pushcart Prize nomination and was a fnalist for the Colorado Book Award in 2011. Of Parkinsons disease, Sorensen says, I have a degenerative illness but the disease is not who I am. It is a tangent, a wayward thread that has informed my writing and the way I perceive the universe, but I am the one who controls its presence. I can allow or disallow how much it permeates my being. Gail Willmott received a B.A. in English and a M.Ed. in education, both from the University of Illinois. A Kaleido- scope magazine staff member since 1982, Willmott became editor in July 2003. She says, I am passionate, some would say obsessive, about my work with Kaleidoscope. Clare E. Willson is originally from England and now lives in Syracuse, New York. She is a writer and an artist. Her writing has appeared in Action Magazine (2009 and 2010). She won the national Independence Expo Competition for her essay titled Independence. She creates art from recycled metal on acrylic painted canvas. Wilson has sec- ondary progressive MS which has left her with hemiplegia (left side paralysis). She describes herself as an attractive, determined and stubborn British native.