While driving in an unfamiliar part of the country, Nathan came by chance upon the old
road to the School. He had forgotten it was there. He parked his car near the end of
the long driveway, walked under the stone archway and became a child again. There
were the familiar playing fields and the summer light flickering between the leaves of the
chestnut trees on either side of the graveled drive. The air was clammy and close.
Nathan glanced across at something moving over on the far side of the cricket fields: at
the figure of a man perhaps; he couldn’t be sure because the light was in his eyes and
the views across the fields were hazy in the heat.

Nathan approached the jumble of ancient brown-stoned buildings standing silent in the
summer afternoon and he was blind to their twenty-first century extensions and
signposts. He looked up at the walls and the old lead-lined windows. Where was that
window? Squinting against the sun he found it on the first floor: the study he had
shared with two others: one of them his friend Hugh, the other – Peter – about whom
he had felt indifference, as had everyone. Peter had conjured indifference in others and
this had turned out to be dangerous. He had seemed to transmit something that
attracted scorn, abuse, rage, as hot sweat attracts flies, regular and unremitting. Up
there was the window Peter had thrown himself from one night when he had decided it
was enough.

The study had been small and a welcome mark of seniority: a haven and a shelter. Yet
it would have been foolish to consider himself safe there, for into it might come Chris
and Geoff at any moment of the day, unannounced. Then in a second what before had
been relative shelter and tranquility became chaos and pain.

Small boys did not learn things, Nathan now knew, they absorbed and integrated
things so completely into their little beings that everything essential to survival became
second nature, first even. They did not need to learn how to pick up signs of menace:
they were themselves live antennae that were never switched off. They were sensitive
to the slightest movement – to the possibility that in this person or in that place there
had suddenly flickered some dark intent. An effective antenna would detect this before
even the enemy had become aware of it himself. Nathan remembered how something in
him froze and withdrew into itself before an idea in the enemy had begun. Those who
had failed at this had done so at some cost to themselves: they had been the nails
waiting to be hammered down. They had attracted this to themselves and since
everyone had known this and had welcomed it even as a law of life there had been no
pity: none in the tormenter or in those watching, breathing as neutrally as they could in
relief that today at least their own antennae could be trusted.

As he stood looking up at the window, Nathan had an inkling of the cost of all this. His
antenna-instinct had never gone away. Through instinct he would go to the chair with
the widest view of the whole room, would scan and test for unconscious intent, keep
his gaze averted. The cloak of caution he would never shrug off. He shivered a little: he
could not contemplate now the risks not taken, the strong weather not met. It felt cold
outside despite the thin summer sun. He stepped forward towards the front door.

Nathan stood framed in the front doorway as the sun shone in from behind him down
the long stone corridor. Splinters of heat and light pierced into the cold seventeenth-
century interior. There was no one about, not a sound and this was unexpected.

He did not need to know where to go. The tortured geography of the place was as
familiar as his own hand. He had lived there for longer than he had at home. The
corridor stretched away in front of him. To his left was the sports notice board: in his
time he had made sure that his name was on the most crucial list of all there: Excused
Sports. He had manifested strange symptoms that no one had understood in order to
keep his name on that list as often as he could. He recalled a doctor in a hospital once
prodding him in despair and how he had felt proud then that the system could be
beaten: that good or poor health was a part of the same game: a far cleverer game
than the dull ones repeated every day on the playing fields outside.

He remembered the games, and sitting on a radiator for hours afterwards in winter
until his fingers had recovered enough sensation to be able to undo his buttons and
change clothes. A little thing: to undo a button. He knew what it was like not to
manage it, to weep with despair. To have no one there. He knew there was a point past
misery, when it shifted into something else. Out on the battleground playing-fields
every afternoon he had learned to slip away from the world even while appearing to
move in it – you had to move in the snow for instance, or you’d die. But he had not
really been there. Dissimulation, evasion, invisibility. He wondered if he had ever come
back.

Nathan looked away down the corridor: silence; dust caught in the sunlight from the
cloisters on the right; closed doorways on the left to the libraries, the common rooms,
the refectory and – further down – the chapel, the hours wasted there in worship. He
thought he heard the echo of a footfall in the distance: someone else who had just
turned the corner at the far end of the corridor before he had come in. Perhaps after all
he would be stopped here and questioned; what would he say? He prepared a few
words: their effect would be to appease, to convey the impression that he posed no
threat; he would be polite, he was just passing through. There was no one there.
Nobody came.

Nathan was bewildered at himself for having come here. Had he in fact ever been here
before? Perhaps it had all happened to someone else. What was he remembering,
really? He didn’t know. All that he believed of his childhood: he could have made it up; it
could be no more than a story he had repeated to himself over the years because it
had helped to explain a space in him: something that had grown with him and had
became myth. The myth had lead him today to a locked door in the poor dull center of
himself and he did not care for a key.

*        *        *

Nathan passed the door to his old study. And next to it the door from where Chris and
Geoff would sometimes emerge. He remembered one of their many visits and saw
himself silent witness to it, sitting quietly in the study corner. Chris had begun. He had
said: Crikey Geoff it’s so quiet in here you can hear a bloody pin drop. Even quite a
small bloody pin, said Geoff, following Chris into the room. Where do you think this pin
thing comes from? said Chris. Not a clue, said Geoff, let’s ask around. Anyone in here
know where it comes from? Doesn’t look like they do, said Chris, Funny that,
considering how clever they all are. Yes, suspiciously funny, said Geoff.

I think we ought to carry out a little pin-dropping test just to check everyone
understood the question, said Chris. Have you got one Geoff? I have, as it happens,
said Geoff. It’s an old tie-pin but I think it will do. It will suffice, said Chris, As old Willy
Williams says. Yes he has a nice turn of phrase, has old Willy, said Geoff. But we won’t
need him for this little test, will we? said Chris, I mean it’s not as if we’re in bloody Latin
now. No, said Geoff, We’re not in bloody Latin now. And old Willy’s not here anyway,
said Chris, Which is just as well. It is just as well, said Geoff, So who shall we test first?
Oh, I think… our old mate Peter’s been rather quiet, said Chris, So quiet you’d have
thought he was asleep! Or dropping pins. We’ll wake him up a bit shall we, said Geoff,
But where shall we wake him?

Try… here, said Chris, Look there’s no point in struggling: see how Geoff can hold you
down. You know how he is. You are strong today aren’t you Geoff? You don’t need a
hand? No I don’t need a hand, said Geoff, Thanks for the offer. That’s what mates are
for, see. Look if I hold you like this Peter my old mate, then Chris can do the test – as
soon as you’ve told that us you agree to the test of course – far be it for us to go
forcing anyone now. And this is what it comes down to, said Chris, And naturally we’re
hoping you’ll agree. Because as usual we only have your best interests at heart, do we
not Geoffrey? Yes, the very best, said Geoff.

The test is with this pin here. Can you see it? said Chris. Look, hold his head up Geoff
so he can see the bloody pin. That’s right. Now, in this case you have a choice – never
let it be said we aren’t generous, eh Geoff? No, never let it be said, said Geoff. Either
you tell us whereabouts you’d like us to stick you with the pin, said Chris, and if we
agree then that’s fine of course, or you don’t tell us, in which case we have to choose.
What do you think? Sounds all fair and square to me, said Geoff. Or, said Chris, how
about this: since you seem to be choosing not to choose, which is your perfect right of
course, we’ll ask someone to choose for you. Never let it be said we aren’t democratic –
that there isn’t some freedom of choice here. No, never let that be said, said Geoff. So
we’ll ask. Hugh, said Chris: he’ll choose where you’ll be tested. But Hugh’s gone very
quiet too, said Geoff, Or is he just thinking? If he is that could take some time.

Ah – he was just thinking, said Chris. There you go, and thank you Hugh – a very good
choice. Yes I know you never said anything so I’ve chosen for you. I mean for Peter, as
it were. And your ass it shall be. An excellent choice, said Geoff, If I may say so myself.
There we go – are they fully down Chris, the little trousers? Fully down now, said Chris,
And here’s the little pin Geoff. Suddenly I feel spoiled for choice. I think we’ll have to
play it by ear and do several tests until we find the one that sounds right. I just don’t
know where to stick it first. There. Oh yes… How did that first one sound to you Geoff?
A bit muffled Chris, said Geoff, But I wasn’t paying much attention – could we try just
here for example? Yesss… that’s a bit clearer, much clearer. I bet they almost heard
that one outside!

A little louder do you think? said Chris. I think a bit, said Geoff, I mean we want to
make it worth our while: there we go, much better, now I think we’re getting into our
stride. But we’ll be needing some paper soon, won’t we. Will someone be kind enough
to go and get some toilet paper for us so that Peter can clean up his bloody bloody
little mess? You said it Geoff, said Chris: a right bloody mess. You always were a
bloody messy little blighter weren’t you Peter my old mate. So I suppose we’re going to
have to teach you to be tidier too. These lessons never end. It’s a good thing we’re
teaching him for free, Geoff. Just think what it would cost if he had to pay.

Do you want to pay us Peter? said Geoff, Or would you like another little lesson in pain?
We’ll take that as a yes shall we, said Chris, since we have the whole afternoon in front
of us. We don’t need paying for more pain.

*        *        *

Nathan left the study corridor and climbed the stone steps up to the first dormitory
floor. He stood in a doorway and surveyed the rows of little beds on the polished
wooden floor, about ten down each side of the long room. The beds were made up,
very neat. Sunlight shone in through the windows. He saw that now each bed had
some curtains that could be pulled round and a little table, and perhaps more blankets
than he remembered. He wondered if despite the curtains and the blankets anything
had changed.

Some years ago he had tried to tell a friend – someone whose education had been kind
– how it had been then not to sleep at night for hours until terror had turned
eventually into exhaustion, until it had been safe to allow sleep. The onset of night had
been worse, when he’d been most tired, the antennae not at their best. By day there
had been some semblance of order and authority in the Masters, a regulated timetabled
life and a means somewhere to escape. By night all that had evaporated away: life laid
bare, no boundaries that could not be breached; the seniors free to let their
imaginations run wild without limit, as had been anyone with the slightest power over
anyone else in terms of brute force or bravado. But the worst thing – Nathan had tried
to tell this friend – was that everything had depended on other people’s whim, on their
random moods of the moment. The night could just as easily be a quiet one as not, as
easily a fall – unexpected – into sleep as an endless drama filled with the Prefects’ most
extreme depredations.

His friend couldn’t grasp any of this. ‘But surely it was all just wrong’, the friend had
said, as if there had been an oversight which somehow could have been corrected.
‘Why didn’t you just go the Masters?’ the friend had asked. Nathan had seen then that
it was hopeless to explain, to point out that his own Housemaster was famous for
spending much of his free time loitering outside the toilets hoping to catch a glimpse of
a boy in mid-masturbation. Besides, those who sneaked on others had been singled
out for special punishment and sometimes reprisals enacted on whole dormitories at a
time. He remembered one cold night: they had all been made to queue up outside the
headmaster’s study in their pajamas so that the eminent holder of that office could
beat each of them in turn, alone in his study, his raised gym-shoe and arm falling and
rising tirelessly long into the night.

The dormitory was silent now, baking and airless in the summer sun. Hard to think of it
as a place filled with fear, stinking sometimes of semen and shit; a place where cheap
alcohol was smuggled, porn magazines traded, beds and boys stripped for laughs, bets
taken, dares failed or fulfilled, little lives saved or broken, the survival instinct tested
and made sound.

At the back of the room, still with the elevated status of its own shelves, Nathan saw
the Prefect’s bed – every dormitory had had one. He remembered the reign of B in
particular. How B would choose in a long drawn-out and very public deliberation which
boy should approach him that night as he lay naked on his bed. How B’s eyes had
shone dark somehow, even in the dim light of the night. The dormitories had been
kingdoms where allegiances to competing clans had been crucial, loyalties tested,
vendettas carried out. They had been the birthplace for the games of power which in
later life were played out in the boardrooms, or in Bosnia, say, and in parliament,
Nathan now knew. They were where you went under or where you swam and survived;
where you were deemed to be a man-in-the-making or where you took on the
unmistakable odor of an underdog: a smell impossible to wash off. Nathan had never
felt like a man-in-the-making, rather somebody who may not be there.

Once he had encountered B at an official opening of an exhibition in the city. He had
watched him from the corner of the room, feeling nothing except an overriding need
not to be seen. So there he was: this adult version of someone whom once he had
despised. B had looked suave in a suit that day, gesticulating in the small circle of
people around him in the gallery yet at the same time very much a boy, still boasting.
One day Nathan had by accident witnessed another aspect to B, he remembered, when
hurrying down a small lane behind the School’s library, late for prep. B had been sitting
on a bench gazing out at the playing fields and something unexpected about him had
made the boy hesitate, sneak a second look. The face – its familiar square jaw, its eyes
wide-set and small – was, Nathan had seen, frozen and inward-looking, shot-through
with sadness. It had been more than that even – as if in a private moment B had
become victim himself to some tearing tragedy or abuse; he had looked stricken and
scared.

Nathan had kept in touch with Hugh over the years. He had never met Hugh’s family or
seen him in the company of anyone else. They acknowledged that what they shared
may not be expressible to others; they failed even to express it to themselves. They
would sit for an hour or two, side by side every few months, in a half-empty pub
somewhere in the city, or very occasionally in Hugh’s flat. Sometimes they would play
chess. Their conversation was inconsequential: small details of their days and
occasionally – perhaps after a second drink – the larger movements in their lives. They
enjoyed a philosophical perspective on what they had become but knew that this was
not the reason they met. They met in order to see each other as adults. As if to say:
yes it is possible after all to be here, to have come from there and now to be here, to
be having a drink in this pub, to have made it this far. At the School, every day had
been an achievement; and as an adult it still was. Nathan thought that Hugh had
realizedmore than he had back then that there were moments when he, Hugh, might
not have gone on; that Hugh had been pushed much closer to the edge and had had
to learn to live there.

Despite this, Nathan believed that Hugh had reached the best kind of accommodation
with his boyhood. His manner seemed to Nathan resigned; he did not expect or hope
for much in life. On the rare occasions in the pub when, after several drinks and a
couple of games, they brushed too close to a topic which might invite some emotion,
Hugh’s eyes flickered slightly and his face clouded for a moment as something was held
back, still defended. He became a boy again then, the antennae in place.

Hugh’s life seemed to be burdensome, filled with stresses which he said were related to
the office, to monies lost or unaccounted for, to a pension fund not as secure as he’d
thought. Nathan thought however that Hugh’s stress came from trying hard to contain
everything, that one day he would implode. He remembered Hugh’s strategy: his
silences in the little study they had once shared with Peter, how content he had been
that others thought him stupid, ineffectual, not worth their attention, whether
malicious or benign. And how he had often gone up to sit for hours, alone, in one of
the silent attic-spaces, ‘just to get my head down’ he would say later and Nathan
would nod in reply.

Once Nathan went to meet Hugh in the office where he worked in the city center. Hugh
was involved in the money markets though this turned out to be in accounts, unlike the
money brokers themselves who could be seen on the other side of the large internal
window, bawling and gesticulating to each other as millions of pounds’ worth of
commodities were bought and sold in an instant, the fates of countries hanging upon
their tiniest gesture, upon someone screaming figures across the room so aggressively
that other people’s offers were stifled. Growing up in an all-male boarding school meant
that it was impossible to look upon any man as ever fully-grown: one saw immediately
the little boy in short-trousers hiding inside the adult. All the enduring boyhood tics
and defenses were still there, better disguised. They had all been there that day on
display behind the glass in Hugh’s office.

Some months after this office visit, Hugh had called Nathan in a voice that had sounded
small and shaken on the phone. Hugh had said that he had suffered a kind of
breakdown and that it was probably best they didn’t meet.

*        *        *

The first-floor dormitory lead out onto a wide passageway which, after several study
doorways, the bathrooms and toilets, became a narrow corridor – poorly lit, leading
downwards into the bowels of the building. Nathan knew it lead first to the kitchens,
the infirmary (where he had been frequently confined) and eventually on down to The
Club: a suite of underground chambers where hobbies were allowed. Wood and metal
work had been taught and practiced there, some electronics, a small darkroom too. He
had spent much of his time in those rooms whenever excused games. He would go
back down there now. He didn’t know why.

The corridor wound on down past the ground floor doorways. Nathan paused in the
dim light which had now almost disappeared. Each time he came to one of the several
flights of stone steps his feet knew where to slow and step forward carefully to the top
of the first step. The body remembered. Nothing forgot.

The cold stone walls of the corridor seemed to him more real than anything he could
ever remember and yet even now he could not be certain that he was there. As if in
answer to this, a door banged further down at the end of the corridor – in the breeze
he supposed: there were drafts due to the ventilation shafts that kept the air fresh
in the basement and filtered away the fumes from the boilers nearby.

Nathan went on and came to the heavy steel door. It opened with the same squeal into
the first of the subterranean rooms, visible in the weak greenish glow of some
emergency exit signs. He saw the ceiling was still wreathed in tubes and piping, flaps of
insulation materials and electric sockets dangling from above. And the smell of metal
work, of industrial lubricants and machinery, and of something recently burned.

Here is where the Physics Master had tutored him in electronics, the teacher more
excited than he at the possibility that the Hi-Fi amplifier which the boy had built might
work. This Master had had a rare enthusiasm for his subjects and for life – he had been
curious about quantum physics long before it became fashionable. He had smelled of
sweat and photographic chemicals, had worn shabby clothes, and had never relented
until you had understood why something was significant and true. His disabled
daughter had sometimes trailed around after him, the butt of lewd jokes and of insects
dropped down her dress.

This room lead into another: the wood-working room where Colonel K, tall and mute,
had schooled boys in the secrets of wood with a gentleness and patience quite at odds,
Nathan had thought then, with a military career. Light still entered this room through
two small dusty windows set high up in the whitewashed wall. Nathan listened as the
patter of rain started to fall against these windows yet there was still enough light to
illuminate the familiar tools hung around the walls, the same worn wooden tables and
benches, the wood-turning lathes and – in the far corner – someone who was hunched
over, working on some wood.

Nathan stared across the low room at the figure in the corner. He saw someone in dark
overalls who looked up at him, then straightened slowly and smiled. Nathan prepared to
formulate his excuse for being there. But his voice trailed off into silence as he took in
more of this woodworker who seemed to be entirely alone in the School. Nathan took in
how the man smiled, how all the light in the room seemed to radiate from the corner
where he was standing, how something in his features was familiar: the shape of the
face, the eyes, the slope of the shoulders, how vulnerable this man still seemed in the
way his hands hung loosely at his sides, one of them holding a chisel. Time folded away
then and Nathan knew who was still there, working on wood. Peter, Nathan said.

*        *        *

Nathan stood next to Peter, watching him carving. Peter stopped, removed the piece of
wood from the vice and handed it to Nathan with a gentle smile. It was shaped like a
cross: the crossbar very short compared to the long upright stem. Nathan saw that its
entire surface was covered with an intricate pattern of carvings: an elaborate
interwoven knot that Peter had etched into the soft wood. From between the winding
strands of the knot peered a multitude of small forms: tiny animals, flowers and other
foliage, thistles, the heads of snakes, flocks of birds even, in full flight. As Nathan
looked more closely still in the light which seemed to emanate from Peter beside him, he
saw entire scenes – some of which he recognized from his own life, others not; some
contemporary, others apparently archaic; all played out and moving within the endless
weave of carved spiraling lines. There were whole worlds erupting even as Nathan
watched and was drawn further into the fabric of the wood. Fingering it, he could not
see any beginning or end to the curving threads of the knot as they wove back and
forth, crossing over and under each other and returning to where they began only to
start over again. There was a sense of eternal movement in what Nathan now recalled
may be an ancient Celtic design. He turned and looked more closely into Peter’s face.
Like the carving, it drew him in. Peter’s eyes were light blue-grey and very large, just as
they had been before.

Nathan knew he would confess to Peter that he was still a boy, hiding and uncertain. He
would explain to Peter how – since the School – everyone was still a stranger: a threat
in the making, and how when you attuned so completely to others’ moods so that they
did not feel confronted then you lost yourself, and how it was too late afterwards to
revert back. There was no-one to revert to, the container was empty.

Looking into Peter’s eyes, Nathan saw that nothing need be explained. Instead, he
turned and walked back through the basement rooms, up the corridor to the ground
floor, then through the kitchens into the car park outside. The air was fresh now after
the rains, the surfaces cool and wet.

*        *        *

Some weeks later Nathan arrived outside a block of flats in one of the suburbs of the
city. He pushed the button by the door; there was a buzz and he was admitted. He
climbed the three flights of stairs and pushed open the door to his friend’s flat. Inside
he saw that all the furniture had been removed from the dark hallway since his last visit
and that the door at the end was ajar, a little sunlight shining from it down along the
hall.

Inside the small sunlit room Hugh was sitting on a chair looking down at his hands on
his lap. Nathan saw that almost all the furniture that he remembered had been taken
from this room too: there was now only a second chair and a low table with the chess-
board set ready for their game. Two mugs of tea were on the floor. Nathan saw that
this was where Hugh sat – for hours, days, weeks he supposed, alone in this room,
recovering something he had lost in himself.

Hugh looked up, smiled, and gestured for his friend to sit down, to begin the game.
Nathan sat and began to play.

Stephen Busby is a traveler and writer based in the Findhorn Community, northern Scotland.  His prose and poetry have appeared in Cezanne’s Carrot, r.kv.r.y. (visiting hugh and love ends), Visionary Tongue, The Battered Suitcase, Santa Fe Writers Project, and Secret Attic.  Stephen also works in the corporate and not-for-profit sectors, running transformative learning events there. His website is here.

Pulling onto I-4, heading out of Orlando, Fay told herself to relax.
On the seat next to her was her purse and an overnight bag stuffed
with a couple days worth of clean clothes, suntan lotion, a romance
novel, and a manila envelope with the divorce papers.  She was going
to Cocoa Beach for the weekend, just long enough to clear her mind
and sign the divorce papers Dale, her soon to be ex, had the nerve to
send certified mail to Dr. Hasell’s office where she worked as a dental
hygienist.

Fay concentrated on staying between the white lines of the highway.
Driving had gotten somewhat easier in the last month.  More than
once, in those first few weeks after the separation, she’d had to fight
the urge to jerk the steering wheel hard to the right and plow into the
pine trees lining the highway.  She wasn’t sure she wanted to die as
much as go to sleep for a while, perhaps long enough to make it
through the grieving process, however long that might be, maybe wake
up on the other side, ready for life again.

She’d reserved a room at the Ocean Shore Suites.  The front of the
motel faced US 1 and the back faced the beach.  While her first floor
room didn’t offer a view of the ocean, only sand dunes, she could smell
and taste the salt in the air.

Hungry from the drive, Fay walked across the street to Sonny’s Pit
Bar-B-Q.  She ordered a pulled pork sandwich and watched a baby boy,
maybe a year old, at the table across from her, gobble up a plateful of
baked beans.  His face and hands were covered in the red-brown
sauce.  The parents, a scruffy looking pair of nineteen or twenty year
olds, didn’t seem to notice when the baby started running his dirty
hands through his blonde hair.  Fay had to fight the desire to reach
over and stop him, to fling one of her French fries into the back of that
worthless father’s head.

She could not help but think of Dale and her son Owen, who was a
high school senior and still living with his father.  Dale had come to her
that Sunday morning on his way out the door to go fishing.  He had on
that stupid hat with the hooks and lures fastened to the brim.  She
was reading the paper without much concentration, thinking that what
she really needed to do was get out there and tidy up the garden, get
it ready for winter.

“With Owen graduating this year I think we should consider splitting
up,” Dale said as easy as could be, as if it were something he’d
practiced hundreds of times before and were no bigger deal than
suggesting they plant a new crepe myrtle in the front yard.

At first she didn’t quite understand what he’d said; she didn’t listen
to half of what he said.  He was always talking.  Plans for expanding his
landscaping business, plans for buying a new work truck.  Talk, talk,
talk.  Always something she didn’t really care about.  Lowering the
newspaper, she noticed a cartoon was on the TV behind him.  This
seemed strange to her, because weren’t cartoons for Saturday
mornings?

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Split up, divorce.”

“But why?”  Other questions occurred to her: Is it another woman?
Have you felt this way a long time?  Is it me?  Am I fat?  Am I not
attractive?  But the words to these questions, thankfully, she would
think later, didn’t come out of her mouth.

“You know neither of us are happy,” he said.

And it was true.  She hadn’t been particularly happy with the
marriage for years.  But half the people she knew weren’t happy with
their marriages.  Were you even supposed to be married and happy?
She didn’t know.  They had a decent life—minus romance and
excitement and shared secrets—but it hadn’t been awful.  He had never
slapped her around or come home drunk wanting rough second-hand
sex after a night at the strip clubs like some of her friend’s husbands.
He had never, as far as she knew, cheated on her.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.  “I’m already late.”  And then he walked out
the door.

Fay spent the rest of day shopping, buying flowers and a new
blouse, some shoes.  Anything at all but to think about the fact she
would have to start living alone.  What upset her most was that she
would probably have to move out.  Dale hadn’t yet said he wanted to
stay in the house, but he’d built a three-car garage out back the year
before so he could store his lawn equipment and they’d converted the
back bedroom into his office.

*

She leaned back in the motel bed, her head and neck up against the
strange headboard.  The old, green comforter was on the floor at the
foot of the bed.  Julie, Dr. Hasell’s wife and the other hygienist in the
office, had told her to never touch those things.  She said they were
only washed once a month and you never know what type of bodily
fluids might be on them.

This weekend trip had actually been Julie’s idea: get away, she’d said,
it’ll help you clear your mind and make plans for your future.  To Fay,
this sounded like a good idea at the time.

Fay took two big mouthfuls of the beer she’d bought at 7-Eleven on
the way back from the restaurant, then pulled the papers out of the
manila envelope.  His name Dale Ray Brown was above hers, Fay Alice
Brown.  The details of the divorce were what they’d already discussed
and decided: he’d get the house and pay her half its value over the
next ten years.  They would split the cost of Owen’s college education
and she’d cover his insurance.  There were no surprises here.

All she had to do was sign, slide her pen across those three lines
with the red X beside them and the marriage would officially be over.
But she couldn’t sign them just yet.  While she knew the marriage was
over and that she didn’t love Dale, the movement from one person, a
married woman, to the next, a divorcee, was more difficult than she’d
imagined.  She slid the pen back into her purse and turned the bedside
light off.  The beer and her breathing exercises helped ease her toward
sleep in only a matter of minutes.

*

Fay was at the beach by ten the next morning.  She’d bought the
bathing suit Tuesday night, after work, at Target.  It was a little loose
in the hips.  Without trying, she had lost fifteen pounds since moving
out.  The only time she bothered cooking dinner was when Owen came
over on the weekends.  Most nights she was in bed by eight, a half-
eaten bowl of cereal on her bedside table.

The beach was not crowded yet, but it was April and a Saturday—
temperatures in the mid-80’s—so Fay was sure it would fill up
eventually.  She found a spot twenty yards from the water, set her
towel down and her bag with the change of clothes, her lotion and
sunglasses, and the romance novel, To Love Again, Julie had given her
for the trip.

Fay had woken an hour ago, but the water and sun and sand made
her sleepy again, so she closed her eyes and drifted off.  The crashing
of the waves against the beach was calming and easy.

*

She had met Dale twenty-two years ago.  He’d come in to have a
tooth pulled.  He was well-built and attractive, but she was not
available.  Two days before, a man she’d been dating for over a year,
and whom she didn’t truly love, had asked her to marry him.

As she prepped Dale’s tooth for the extraction, she began telling him
about this other man—a man whose name she could no longer pull
from her memory—and about how he was a nice enough guy.  He wore
suits and argyle socks to work and had a yellow canary named Finch.

“Sounds like a fag,” Dale said.

“He’s a good man.”

“You know what you need?”

“No,” she said.  “What?”

“You need to go out to dinner with me, tonight.  I’ll show you a good
time.”  Dale reached over and ran his hand against her naked calf.  And
while she knew she should have been offended, she was not.  She
slapped his hand away, but took him up on his offer for dinner.  Four
months later they were married.

It was the sound of children that pulled her back to the beach.  Two
boys, no older than ten or eleven, were running in and out of the
water, screaming.  Fay sat up and pulled To Love Again from her bag.
On the cover, a couple stood arm-in-arm facing the sea.  In the right
corner of the book was a round sticker with 25 cents scribbled in black
pen.  It was not a new book.  Julie had told her to read it, said it would
show her there were more men out there.

The first chapter introduced the reader to Marie, a woman whose
husband was leaving her for another woman after twelve years of
marriage.  Chapter two and three went through the next couple
months of Marie trying to understand what to do with her life now that
she was alone.  A woman in her forties who had not worked in years.
There were obvious similarities to Fay’s life and she knew Julie had
given it to her for that reason.  She could imagine what was going to
happen; Marie would meet a man and they would fall in love and she’d
be happier than she’d ever been with that old cow of a husband.

Fay had read forty pages of the three-hundred page book when she
felt the need to pee.  Her motel room was only fifty yards behind her
but she didn’t want to leave her things out here unattended and she
didn’t want to lose this prime spot, so she headed to the water.  It was
cooler than she thought it would be.  It was only April.

In waist-deep water, she could see the crowd of people on the
beach.  White-fleshed tourists from places she’d never been:
Minnesota, New York, and Iowa.  She squatted and felt the warm rush
against her thigh, swimming around her knees, her ankles, and then it
was gone.  She was embarrassed as she walked out of the water, sure
that everyone knew exactly what she’d done.  But she told herself it
didn’t matter.  She would never see these people again.  Anything she
did this weekend would stay here, away from her other life back in
Orlando.

On her stomach now, propped up on her elbows, Fay continued to
read the novel.  Marie had started working the counter at a flower shop
where a customer named John came in every Friday and bought a
dozen tulips.  He didn’t wear a ring, so Marie assumed they must be for
his girlfriend.  After his fourth visit, she asked him who the flowers
were for and he’d smiled and said shyly that they were for his mother’s
room at a nearby nursing home.

When she told him how sweet that was, John invited her to come
with him and meet his mother and to have dinner afterwards.  Marie
accepted his offer.  What harm, she wondered, could happen to her in
a nursing home?  Or from a man who was kind enough to bring his
mother fresh flowers every week?

Fay smiled and shook her head.  Of course, it was ridiculous and
predictable, but still she read on, turning to on one side when she felt
her back starting to burn.  Over the course of the next few weeks,
Marie learned that John was an investment banker.  His wife had died a
dozen years earlier in a boating accident.

Through the next hundred pages, the couple began kissing, holding
hands, taking long walks on an unnamed, empty beach.  There were
long passages where they gave each other massages, would not have
sex, but would lie side by side, running their hands across each other’s
excited, naked bodies.  Marie would ask John to make love to her, but
he said he didn’t think he could move on to that stage of the
relationship while his mother was still alive.  She had loved his ex-wife
as if she were her own daughter.

In the parts of the book which detailed these massages, and oiled
hands gliding over  foreign flesh, Fay could feel a stirring inside of
herself.  She ignored it, pushing forward, wanting to know what was
going to happen and how they would finally consummate their love.

But for the next fifty pages, they continued to visit John’s ailing
mother and to explore each other’s bodies with their hands and to tell
secrets of their previous lives: the time John kissed a man in college,
Marie’s admitting she once watered her backyard naked.

With thirty-five pages left to go, Fay’s back and shoulders felt
officially sunburned.  She walked back to her room.  She’d been out
here long enough.  She closed the curtains and took a cool shower and
instead of putting her clothes back on climbed into bed naked.  Her skin
tickled.  The fan swirled overhead.

Fay leaned against the headboard and continued to read.  John’s
mother died.  Her heart simply gave out.  The night of the funeral, after
all the guests had left, Marie stripped John naked and made love to
him.  The book ended with them waking up the next morning with sun
streaming through tall, white curtains.

By the time Fay turned the final page, and dropped the book, her
right hand was stroking herself, pressing and pushing, and that was all
it took.  The force of the orgasm surprised her.  All alone in this
strange motel room with her hand moist, resting on her stomach, Fay
felt a little dirty, a little embarrassed and sore, but, all in all, she felt
pretty damn good.

After a nap, she took another quick shower and got dressed for
dinner.  A mile up US 1, there was a bar named Conchy Joe’s.  She’d
eaten there years ago with Dale.  She decided to go there tonight, have
a beer or two, some oysters and a plate of conch fritters.  Then she
would come back and sign those damn divorce papers, be done with it
once and for all.

Conchy Joe’s was hopping and Fay took a seat on the balcony bar
under a faux straw-mat roof.  Behind her was the Intercoastal Waterway
and she watched as a pair of sailboats cruised under the bridge.  It was a
fine evening.  The heat of the day, though mild, had burned her shoulders
and her neck.  She could feel the fabric of the shirt touching her skin and
this, she thought, was not completely unpleasant.  She hadn’t worn a bra
and her nipples felt firm, reacting to the soft cotton of her top.

The bartender was tall and young and cute and he winked at her.  But
she knew he probably winked at every woman who came in here.  His tips
counted on it.  There were a couple men, both older than her, sitting at
one corner of the bar and a married couple sitting to her right.

Just relax, she told herself again.  The beer tasted good.  The oysters
felt soft and soggy on her tongue but she didn’t care.  She was miles
away from her home and that apartment, from her son who had
disappointed her by choosing to stay with his father, from her all-but-final
divorce.  She was a woman alone at the beach enjoying herself.  This, in
itself, was a new life for her, one she couldn’t have imagined a year ago.

She thought about that little apartment she’d lived in for almost five
months.  The only personal decoration she’d added was a pair of framed
photos atop the entertainment center: one of her and Owen at the state
fair and Owen’s senior photo.  The apartment had come furnished and she
was grateful that she had not had to go out and purchase furniture that
would be hers, and not theirs, for the first time in twenty-one years.

Maybe she shouldn’t sign those divorce papers as they were written.
Originally she’d agreed to leave Dale the house because it was set up for
his business, but now with the conviction of beer and distance she
wondered why in the hell he should get it.  Sure he would be paying her,
but she deserved it as much as him, if not more.  She’d painted almost
every room, had picked out the carpet and appliances and she’d hung the
borders.  Plus, she had been the main breadwinner for almost all of their
marriage.  If she had to move out and start over, maybe he should have
to do the same thing.  They could sell the house and split the profits.  But
she knew it would be easier to just let him stay in the house.  Plus, Owen
would have that little bit of consistency when he came home from college
on summer breaks.

“May I buy you another?”

It took Fay a moment to realize someone was talking to her.  She
turned.  He was a thick man, a couple years older than her, with gray hair
and a deeply tanned face.  His pale blue button-up shirt was not tucked
into his linen slacks.

Fay smiled, lifted her bottle to finish it and said, “Sure.”

“Chuck,” he said, extending his hands.  “Chuck Mulhauser.”  The only
jewelry he wore was a gold band on his pinky.

“Fay,” she said, shaking his rough, calloused hand.

“Another beer for the lady and a Jack and Coke for me,” he said to the
bartender.  He turned back to Fay.  “So the obvious question is what is a
beautiful lady like you doing alone in a place like this?”

She could see tufts of his grey chest hair at the top of his shirt.  Dale
was practically hairless.  She could see a slight shaving nick by his right
ear.  Dale wore a beard.  This man’s lips were full.  Dale’s lips were almost
non-existent.  Chuck Mulhauser was the physical opposite of Dale and this
alone was enough to make him attractive to Fay.

“A little vacation from life,” she said.  She considered telling him why she
was really here, the divorce papers and whatnot, but did not want to seem
like easy prey.

“We all need one of those sometimes.”

She knew this was playful banter.  For twenty-four years now, she’d
done that, leaning over patients and talking, saying words that didn’t add
up to anything.  “And you, what are you doing in a place like this?”

Fay was well on her way to being drunk.  She’d had two beers before he’
d approached her, and she knew she was a certifiable lightweight when it
came to alcohol.  What was she doing talking, even flirting, with this
strange man?  For all she knew he could have been a murderer, a
rapist.

“I was hungry,” he said and smiled.

He ordered another dozen oysters and eventually each of them another
drink.  Fay felt herself leaning into him.  He ran his hand along her knee, an
inch or two up her thigh.  A respectable distance, she thought, confident
but not too aggressive.  As they ate and drank, he told her that he was in
the import/export business over at the docks.  Boring stuff, he said,
except plenty of money to be made.

“I’m not sure why I’m even talking to you.  Women, I’ve discovered, are
the enemy.  My wife, Sheila, married twenty-nine years—two sons—built
her the fancy house she wanted.  You name it, I gave it to her.  Well, she
runs off and leaves me for some pansy-ass out of work physicist.  I
should have beat the shit out of both of them.  But what are you going to
do?  Am I happier now without her?  Hell, no.  Would I take her back in a
minute if she called me?  Hell, yes.

“I don’t even understand how these things happen.  You think
everything is going along at whatever rate it’s supposed to and then
bamb, you’re blindsided.  Hell, I just don’t know.”

Fay saw the tears in the corner of his eyes and she reached out and took
his hand in hers.  Why couldn’t Dale be more like this man?  Huh, why
not?  Because, she knew, life is not fair and never would be.

“Let’s go back to your hotel,” he whispered.  She looked into his eyes
and nodded.

*

Inside the hotel room, they went at each other’s clothes before the door
was even shut.  He was thicker around the middle than she’d imagined,
but this Chuck Mulhauser was a sure and confident lover.  She closed her
eyes and held on and enjoyed herself.  Although he was not particularly
big, maybe even smaller than Dale down there, it hurt a little at first.  But
she liked his smell and the way his rough hands gripped her waist and
squeezed her breasts.  And then as quickly as it had begun it was over.

She rested her head against his hairy chest, could feel his heart
thumping wildly.  “Was it good?” she asked, embarrassed as soon as the
words left her lips.

“Amazing,” he said in a low, satisfied voice.

“Tomorrow we’ll go for breakfast,” she said.

“I’ll serve you fresh eggs and fruit,” he said.  “Orange Juice.  We’ll take
my boat out.”

Fay closed her eyes, thought that sounded damn good.  Maybe Julie had
been right after all.  Just let yourself go and you’ll find happiness, you’ll
find something.  Chuck started to snore and she slid away from him,
listening to his even breathing.

When Fay woke early in the morning, he was still sleeping and snoring
on his side of the bed.  She thought about what he’d promised, about
breakfast in bed, a day out on his sailboat.  That sounded good to her,
the way something like this should begin.  She wanted to do that, but
knew she couldn’t, not yet.  She’d come here, met a man and discovered
that she just might be able to love again.  While she knew two people
meeting at a bar for a one-night stand wasn’t exactly love, it was a start,
perhaps a sign that her life could be filled with a sort of intimacy she’d
forgotten she was capable of.

Fay got dressed quietly.  She wrote him a quick note on motel
stationary: thanks & take care, Fay.  After writing the first three numbers
of her phone number, she scribbled through them.  Walking outside, the
bright sun almost took her breath away.  Fay blinked a couple times and
headed to her car, climbed in.

Instinctively, as she always had in times of crisis, Fay dialed her old
phone number.  It rang two, three times.  She could see Dale standing
there with his mug of coffee, one hand scratching his fat ass.  Then his
voice was in her ear:  “Hello.”  When she didn’t say anything, he said it
again, annoyed this time, “Hello.”

She turned the phone off and dropped it on the seat beside her, pulled
the divorce papers from the envelope.  After signing all three required
lines, she slid the papers back inside and sealed it shut.  Then Fay climbed
out of the car and walked back to the motel room and knocked on the
door.  When Chuck answered, he had a towel around his waist, his eyes
cloudy with sleep.  “I thought you left,” he said.

“Not yet,” Fay said, taking him by the hand and leading him back to bed
and those still warm comfortable sheets.

Steve Cushman has worked as an X-ray Technologist for the last fifteen
years.  He is the author of the novel, Portisville, and a short story collection,
Fracture City.

I managed, with the help of my parents, to maintain a 1.4 GPA throughout most of high
school, and I flunked out of vocational school, too. That was no small task. I showed up
late every night after sloshing a Dixie cup of whiskey around my gums while sitting in the
Murray J. Field Voc Tech parking lot listening to Foghat in my beat up Duster. I made sure
to get up real close to Mr. Chominski, even breathe in his face while asking how to operate
various power tools, but he’d just tell me to put on my safety glasses and get to work.

Then one night a purple Javelin slipped its jacks and rolled over Jimmy Watts, who was
underneath slapping at a stubborn exhaust pipe.  He sued the school and won an
undisclosed amount of money by convincing a jury that the jacks were placed incorrectly
under the car by a classmate who was at the time intoxicated.  That would have been me,
and that would have been how I flunked out of vocational school. But let me say here that I
did not misplace those jacks, and I was not drunk since I never really swallowed the whiskey but spit it onto the asphalt where I watched it spread like cancer before trickling into the cracks.

After getting kicked out of Voc Tech my parents said I had to get a job.  I’d been living in
the basement, where I’d carved out a small space between the washer/dryer and my dad’s dark room, when my parents clomped down the stairs, classifieds in hand.  I was nailing egg cartons to the paneling in an effort to do justice to “Bridge of Sighs” in a less than perfect acoustic set-up when my dad rapped me across the back of the head with the rolled up newspaper.

“Get a job if you wanna keep living under my roof,” he said.

“Doing what?” I said.

“You’re a smart boy, Raymond,” said my mom, wringing her hands.  “Here,” she offered a
section of newspaper splattered with yellow highlights.  “There’s lots of stuff you’d find
interesting.”

I glanced at the ads she’d honed in on: fast food restaurant staff, all-night party store
clerk, gas station attendant. I wadded up the paper and threw it on my bed.  “What do I
look like, a moron?” I said.

“You don’t want me to answer that,” said my dad.

“I’m not workin’ no crappy ass job,” I yelled, looking for that red in my father’s cheeks
that indicates a sudden rise in blood pressure.

“Well I’m sorry, Raymond,” he said, “there aren’t any openings for brain surgeons just
now.”

“What about the ice cream parlor job?” said my mom.  “That sounds nice.”

I walked to the stereo and cranked the volume up to ten so that Robert Plant shook the
basement windows with his plaintive question, “How Many More Times?”  I think the
statement was lost on my dad, whose cheeks were reading crimson when he shoved the
turntable off the stack of milk crates I’d stolen from mom’s work.

“That album just cost you six bucks, my friend,” I said, and seconds later we were
replaying a popular family drama in my new basement digs: My back on the cold hard floor,
my dad straddling me, his fingers clenched around my throat, and my mother screaming,
“Christ have mercy!”  I decided to apply at the record store.

The manager at Spinners was pretty cool, but I knew when he said that Katie couldn’t
hang around so much I’d have to get fired.  At first I just ignored customers who asked for
help, but all I gained from this was the knowledge that people are entirely apathetic.

Instead of complaining to the manager, they just wandered around the store on their own until they came across another red-smocked, name-badged employee with a little less attitude.  I ripped off the cash register so I’d have enough money to keep Katie in burgers and ice cream next door at Bosco’s until I got off work, at least on the nights mom cashiered at Food Town.  Finally I just made sure that several other employees saw me stuff a Black Sabbath album into my backpack, and that did it.

This, of course, ended with a basement floor replay, which was really okay because by
then I had learned to fake choking so that my father always thought he was farther along in
the process than he actually was.  It was worth it to see that fleshy pink face turn burgundy.

The old man used to take Katie and me to ball games at Tiger Stadium when we were little; he’d let us eat peanuts and cotton candy for dinner, scream at the opposing team’s batters and draw all over our programs. Then one day I noticed it, and it was like waking up from a dream.  I was twelve, but I still wonder how long it was there before I realized it.  Dad’s stomach was spilling over his belt in folds as he sat on the hard wooden bleachers, a grease-stained box of popcorn dwarfed by his bloated fingers, and as he stared past the field and off into a distance too far to name, I was disgusted.  He caught me staring, and to hide my repulsion I launched into a desperate monologue.  “Do you know Kaline’s batting
average?  It’s .295.  Yep, two-nine-fiver. They’ll retire his number for sure. Did you know
Mom is making spaghetti tonight, extra peppers? Her spaghetti always clears my sinuses.
Did you know basil is poisonous to cats?”  He was staring at me then, looking me right in
the eye when he said, “You’re a smart boy, Raymond.  You ask a lot of questions.  People
don’t like that.” He resumed staring and I resumed being disgusted, and not much has
changed.

I tried calling Aunt Martha and Uncle Stu, but they had moved to Denver after the riots.

Aunt Lena and Uncle Marvin were killed in a car wreck six years ago, and Uncle Ted, my dad’s twin brother, is exposing himself regularly to the staff at the veteran’s hospital he’s called home for the past ten years.  None of my mother’s sisters has spoken to her since I was in kindergarten, and I’ve pieced together enough evidence to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that this is in no small way related to my father.  The moral of the story: You never realize you’re alone until you need help.

Katie told our mom before she told me, and I think she only told me because she was desperate: Mom, who couldn’t handle any crisis past a burnt roast or a parking ticket, wouldn’t believe her.  I remember it was the night of the football game against Cooley; I never went to another game after that, and I never went anywhere without Katie.  I was in tenth grade and she was in eighth.  I could tell she was embarrassed-she didn’t cry or anything, probably because that never got her anywhere with me before-but she kept her head down and snapped the ring on her pop can when she told me about the touching, the twine, the camera.  When I found the pictures behind several cans of developer on a shelf in the dark room downstairs, two things occurred to me: that my father was very stupid to hide them there, and that it would have been okay if Katie had cried.

I hid the pictures in different places-one in the Peter Frampton Live album jacket, one under the floor mat in the Duster, one in a gutted 8-track-so that he’d never find them all when he came looking.  My mom, though determined not to believe Katie, must have confronted him because the next time I checked the cans were scattered and my room had been tossed.  Maybe my mom believed him when he said that I had taken his camera from the dark room, that I had done some horrible thing to my sister, that I was a sick, sick boy.  One day when my dad and I are really going at it, when his face is as red as the paint on Crandell’s Mach I, I’m going to pull out those pictures and show him how sick I really am.

After the last heart attack, some fat guy from Social Services came to our house and
asked Katie a bunch of questions in front of our parents.

“She’s not gonna talk in front of him,” I motioned with my head toward my father
dismissively, but his face remained as white as chalk.

“Son,” said Fatso, “why don’t you let me do my job?”

He continued asking embarrassing questions and Katie continued staring at the carpet and flicking the ring on her Rock ‘n Rye can.

“Katie, honey,” said our mother while shooting me an accusatory glare, “look what your
father’s been through.”

Of course he wore the look of an invalid with ease, hand on his heaving chest, droplets of
sweat popping up on his forehead like blisters.

Maybe I should have brought out the pictures then, but who knows how that would have
gone?  He might have believed us, taken us both away, even separated us.  Or he might
have believed my father and taken me away.  What would happen to Katie then?  I knew
that in his condition the pictures could be a deadly weapon against my father, so I holstered them.

“Forget it,” Katie said quietly.  “Nothing happened.”  Fatso had his pen capped before Katie left the room.

That night I put a dead bolt on my sister’s door, hammering and pounding as the old man
recuperated in the bedroom next door, and we worked out a code so she’d know when it
was me knocking.  In truth, I didn’t believe the old man would try anything-he just had a
heart attack, for chrissake-but I figured this was a good way of letting him know that
nothing would get by me again.

I know what you’re thinking because I’ve thought it myself.  Instead of being such a screw
up, I should work my ass off to make some serious money and get Katie out of there.  But
it’s hard to make serious money when you flunk out of high school or when you have to get
fired from jobs because you can’t work Monday, Wednesday or Saturday nights since those are the nights your mom is stacking cantaloupes and doing price checks until midnight, not that you can count on her for much, anyway.  My escape plan involves more than slapping burgers onto a bun or sprinkling chocolate ants on some brat’s vanilla cone; it involves timing and patience.  I’ve gathered up the pictures and slid them under a flap I cut into the carpet downstairs, and I bought two used speakers and mounted them to the basement ceiling.  My dad hasn’t come downstairs since Fatso visited and his face has remained pretty white despite my best efforts, but I’m pretty sure I can count on Ozzy Osborne to help me restore his color.

My dad has already had two heart attacks, the most recent one triggered by a struggle
with Katie at about the same time the Javelin made sauce of Jimmy Watt’s legs.  My mother remained unconvinced even though the paramedics told her we’d get a visit from Social Services, told her they’d found my father in Katie’s room, one hand clutching his chest, the other clutching the Polaroids.  My mother believed him when he said that it was me, that I’d bullied my sister into lying, that I destroyed the lives of everyone in our once happy home.

Lipitor and angioplasty have made my job difficult, but not impossible: I have Led Zeppelin
and Black Sabbath on my side.  Between my new speakers, Ozzy’s “No Rest for the Wicked” and Plant’s “Communication Breakdown,” I imagine it won’t be long before my father pays me another visit.  After he’s sprawled out on the concrete floor with a red face and a bulging heart, I’m going to pull out the photos, then I’m going to pull out the twine, then I’m going to pull out the camera, and then I’m going to snap.

Dorene O’Brien’s work has appeared in the Connecticut Review, Carve Magazine, Clackamas Literary Review, New Millennium Writings, The Cimarron Review, the Chicago Tribune, Detroit Noir and others.  She has won the Red Rock Review’s Mark Twain Award for Short Fiction, the New Millennium Fiction Award, and the Chicago Tribune Nelson Algren Award.  She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, has won the international Bridport Prize and has received a creative writing fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.  Her short story collection, Voices of the Lost and Found, was published by Wayne State University Press in 2007. She teaches writing at the College for Creative Studies and at Wayne State University in Detroit.