Myth Retold and Fulfilled: Converting Myth into Religion in C.S. Lewis' Till We Have Faces

C.S. Lewis is generally not considered to be an author of brilliantly influential and deeply profound literature. Many know him for his children's books, The Chronicles of Narnia. He is better known for these and other non-fiction books such as Mere Christianity than he is for his fiction; his more mature and esoteric work. He wrote primarily during what most scholars would consider the end of the Modernist era, and his final novel, Till We Have Faces, reflects it wonderfully. Modernism is characterized by a search for deeper meanings throughout life, generally sought out by a return to the archaic. Lewis' retelling of the ancient Greek myth of Cupid and Psyche certainly qualifies. Lewis does not simply retell the myth in his own words; rather he uses the form of the myth to convey his own beliefs about Christianity, thus drawing attention to the arching and inseperable parallels between myth and religion.

While biographical information alone cannot solely be used to interpret a piece of literature, it is vital that Lewis' religious affiliation be known when analyzing his work. Lewis was an atheist for the majority of his life, but later became a devout Christian. He studied many of the world's religions in his search for God and came to know, as Doris T. Myers states, “the pagan myths that seem to foreshadow Jesus and [as well as accept] the Gospel as fact” (“In Context” 190). It is within this context that the work must be analyzed in order to fully understand it.

In the beginning of the novel, strong religious references are cemented with the reader. The story is narrated by Orual: daughter of King Trom and half-sister of Psyche. While it is important to remember that “Lewis's story is a "novel," not an allegory, which should remind readers that things in [Lewis’s] fiction are meaningful in themselves just as much as they may mean other things” (Arnell 1), the reader cannot help but make allegorical associations. Orual can be identified with the whole of humanity. She struggles with the question of faith. She feels that her ugliness, her sin in allegorical terms, separates her from others in the novel. The main events in the beginning (her father's new marriage, the arrival of the Fox, her discovery of her own ugliness):

point to three major themes of the book: Orual's need for love, her struggle with the faith of the Old Priest versus the enlightenment of the Fox, and the meaning of Glome's paganism within the larger context of the Incarnation of Christ. (“Bareface” 14)

In the first chapter, Orual states, “I…have not much to fear from the anger of gods…I will accuse the gods, especially the god who lives on the Grey Mountain” (Lewis 3), establishing her struggle with faith. Myers tells us that Orual “sees herself as a plaintiff against the god, but she does not hope for a divine answer” (“Bareface” 14). Lewis is drawing the reader's attention to Orual's hopeless outlook and struggle with faith in order to parallel the struggles that he himself faced as a young man. It also brings to mind the feelings that so many of his generation had: can religion provide the answers for the most profound of life's questions? Lewis would argue, yes.

The other major allegorical reference is made through the characters of Psyche and the Fox. Both represent aspects of Jesus: Psyche, the compassionate and the Fox, the philosophical. Psyche is described as beautiful from the moment she is born. Orual tells us that, “She made beauty all around her. When she trod on mud, the mud was beautiful; when she ran in the rain, the rain was silver” (Lewis 22). She catches the attention of everyone whom she meets. Jesus, who radiated spiritual beauty, captured people’s hearts in the same way.

Psyche also has a desire to help all people. She nurses Fox back to health after he nearly dies from a fever that has plagued Glome. Following this, the word spread quickly through the kingdom and “Within two days half the city was at the palace gate,” shouting, “ 'Heal us, heal us. The Princess with the healing hands!' “ (Lewis 30-31). The similarities between these events and events from Jesus' life are obvious. She is like Christ in her “determination to touch people who need healing” (“Bareface” 24). Her ministry, like Christ's, is “physically demanding…Her willingness to sacrifice herself is equaled only by her compassion for other people” (“Bareface” 24). Psyche also becomes a sacrifice at the hands of her own father, leaving Orual riddled with guilt through the rest of the novel. This, again, is used to demonstrate a fallacy in humanity's, particularly Christians', view of Jesus' sacrifce: it is not guilt, but gratitude, thankfulness and even reverence that Orual should have.

The Fox is brought to the kingdom by the King to be a tutor for Orual. Myer’s points out that “In the Fox, Lewis shows us a man who aspires to be a true Stoic but falls short of his goal,” and that, “The Fox is ashamed of his emotions; Jesus accepted his” (“Bareface” 20). The Fox seems to contrast Jesus in many ways, yet in the end, they are comparable. Jesus most certainly was not “Stoic.” Lewis tells us he was “a man of delicate sensibilities who wept at the grave of Lazurus and sweated blood in Gethsemane” (qtd. in “Bareface” 20). This is the opposite of the Stoic man that the Fox attempts to be. He, as do most men, wants to be a man of noble bravery. As Myers points out, “when [Fox] says, ‘The body is shaking. I needn’t let it shake the god within me’ (Lewis 18)[...]Parodixically, in his fear, his failure to be a perfect Stoic, the Fox was a precursor to Jesus” (“Bareface” 20). This comparison parellels Lewis’s belief that people do not need to aspire to stoicism; rather, they should follow Jesus’ example of humbleness.

Myth and religion are inseperable for Lewis. He calls “the Incarnation [of Jesus] ‘myth become fact’ “ (“In Context 190). Lewis used pagan myths in order to explain and “foreshadow” the coming and crucifixion of Christ. It was useful to do this because it connected the archaic and fantastical to the fundamentals of Lewis’ own beliefs, thereby bringing a certain familiarity and credibility to Christianity. Lewis wanted the reader to realize that Christianity is not an isolated belief system; it has values that can be applied in every walk of life.

Works Cited

Arnell, Carla A. “On Beauty, Justice, and the Sublime in C.S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces.” Christianity and Literature 52.1 (2002): 23.

Lewis, C.S. Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold. New York: Harcourt Inc., 1956.

Myers, Doris T. Bareface: A Guide to C.S. Lewis’s Last Novel. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2004. 13-24.

---. C.S. Lewis in Context. Kent: Kent State University Press, 1994. 190.

Up on the Roof

This story was published in Vol. 1, Issue 1 of Vulcan: A Literary Dis-allusion.

3

Peter tastes warm metal. He thinks of the time he put quarters into his mouth when he was a small boy, mistaking them for the chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil that his uncle used to give him. His lips are tightly gripped around the flawlessly smooth cylinder of the revolver. He has been holding this facial expression long enough to force the inside of his mouth into muscle spasms. His tongue involuntarily laps the sides of the barrel and it is beginning to throb and ache.

His white t-shirt is soaked in sweat: yellowing the armpits and making it translucent across his back and chest. He grips the butt of the gun with one hand, occasionally switching to wipe the sweat off on his jeans. The barrel is just long enough to contort his wrist in such a way that the veins pump violently trying to get every ounce of life into his hand. His toenails scratch and gouge the carpet in time with ticking of the clock that hangs on the wall.

2:56 pm and 31...
...32...
...33...
...34...

Beneath the clock is a bed--made neatly as that of a soldier. The clean, white sheet is tucked underneath the mattress as is a blue, wool blanket with a perfectly fluffed pillow resting on top. Under the metal frame of the bed is untouched carpet: blue with flecks of yellow pulled tight and firm. It runs around the entire room like water filling the bottom of the bath tub, covering every inch it possibly can, trying to escape the confinement of the walls. At the foot of the bed, on the floor, is a young woman. Her hair is short and messy and her clothes match the same description. She has been shot twice in the chest. The blood has turned the carpet around her into a black pool. Across from the bed is a desk whose legs sink into the carpet. The desk chair is tipped over on its side, the hollow plastic of its wheels exposed.

On the desk sits a single sheet of college ruled paper. It has been folded once in half perfectly down the center. Written on the top line is a single sentence:

Hurry up please, it’s time.

Peter’s chest is heaving but the tears stopped long ago. He stares through the door, piercing it, as if waiting for someone, but he isn’t--not anymore. Behind the door, the desert wind picks up dust and dirt, carrying it away to a new resting place. The sky is a blinding blue--no clouds. The giant screen from the abandoned drive-in is monolithic against it. The sign at the side of the road reads The Starlighter!. The marquee below it still holds a few black plastic letters, though they don’t spell anything. A jackrabbit scurries from shrub to shrub looking for some lunch. In the waves of heat emanating from the ground, a small dust cloud rises off in the distance. Someone driving down the road no doubt.

∞

It is difficult to remember joy. Happiness is easy. It used to come in little packages, wrapped up neatly, but then it was gone. Listening to that favorite song on the radio. Christmas morning. Birthdays. Sitting on the sand watching the ocean crash and swell against the shore. Finite moments. Always fleeting. Joy is so different though. With joy, I was lifted. I floated. I flew. I experienced sensations unimaginable. I could never see more clearly, yet now I cannot remember. It has escaped me. Joy is something you can’t describe until you’re in it--wrapped up in a warm blanket. I would venture to guess that I will never be wrapped up again.

2

Peter couldn’t speak when he burst through the door of James’ apartment. James sat quietly in his recliner, facing the television. He was a glowing blue orb in the dark void of his living room. His eyes moved to Peter who stood, breathless in the doorway.

“Are you coming in or not?” James said.

Peter took a step forward and shut the door. He flipped the wallswitch and James’ arms shot up to shield his eyes from the blinding light. Peter staggered over to James, leaned in, put his hands on James’ shoulders to hold his weight and opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

James put the footrest down; the springs snapped the recliner up violently, throwing Peter back a few steps.

“I got a note today,” Peter said, his voice cracking. “When I got home from work, it was on my bed. She’s really gone. She’s really been taken.”

“What? Wha-- What do you mean?”

He handed James a piece of paper, folded once in half.

You did this.
She’s dead if you don’t do something.
What are you waiting for?

James stared at it blankly. His eyes moved across each letter, absorbing over and over again.

“This has to be a joke,” he said finally.

“How do you know? How can you say that with such certainty?”

“I’m just saying we can’t jump to any conclusions. Have you gone to the police yet?”

“Not since yesterday. I came straight here.”

“Okay, let’s go to down to the police station and give this to them. They’ll know what to do.”

Peter clenched his fists. His knuckles whitened and cracked.

“But it says I have to do something! It says that I did do something! What could I have possibly done?”

“I don’t know, Peter, but by going to the police, you are doing something aren’t you? Until another note shows up, if another shows up, there’s nothing you can do except go to the police. This doesn’t have any instructions. Whoever wrote this hasn’t told you what you have to do, if anything at all.”

Peter sat down on the floor, legs crossed. He put his head in his hands and breathed slowly.

“So just wait?” he said.

“Yeah. Wait.”

1

Jessie’s hair fell in golden cascades as she took it out of its ponytail. The full moon cut across her face, making it both light and dark. Peter watched her lean back against the roof of her parent’s house, which sat atop a hill. He was staring off into the night sky like some tortured, love lost soul. He hardly blinked: just moved his eyes back and forth as if there were words written above him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jessie watching him intently.

He looked away towards James, who was on the other side of him looking out over the landscape of rooftops and palm trees as if waiting for something big to happen. Peter tried to read his thoughts, but James was a statue.

“Whatcha lookin’ at tonight, Pete?” Jessie said.

“Hmmm...? Just the sky.”

“Not much up there.”

“Sure there is. There’s black and...Stars...When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you aaaaaaaaare.”

“You are lame. I prefer the city view, like James.”

A small smile inched into one corner of James’ mouth, but his eyes remained fixed on the houses below.

“I like to examine the planning of our town,” Jesse continued, “The structured, pretty pavement cutting through grass. I can imagine the two of us rolling around down on the nicest lawn. Over there--remember?” she asked.

Peter looked where Jessie pointed.

“I do.”

She put her hand on his and squeezed.

“What are you thinking about James?” Peter said pulling his hand from Jessie’s to run it through his hair.

“Oh, I don’t know. Up on the roof, the whole world at our feet.”

“Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

James didn’t answer at first. He bit his bottom lip--scraped it with two of his teeth.

“I’ve waited for this moment religiously.”

The three of them sat silent for a minute.

“I’m just happy, that’s all,” James said finally.

Jessie looked at him and smiled.

“I’m glad you like it.”

∞

The truth is I don’t like people. There are too many bad ones. I try and try, but they’re always there no matter where I go. I’ve always moved from town to town for as long as I can remember: my father was in the service, and my mother dead before I could speak. I take care of bad people son, he told me over dinner one night. But why do we have to move all the time?--Because there are bad people all over the place. And the good ones like you need me to get rid of them.--Oh. But it’s hard to have friends. Because we have to move all the time. I want to have friends.--Friends aren’t forever son. Remember that.

3

Peter is still waiting. He is so exhausted. He sits down hard on the floor, his feet out in front of him. He holds the gun with both hands.

Click--

2

As they left the police station, Peter broke down and started to cry. They stopped and he bent over, placing his hands on his knees. The vomit came quick and all at once but wasn’t very much. James stood statuesque, hands in his pockets, watching the street traffic as Peter composed himself.

“She’s going to die, and there’s nothing we can do,” Peter said.

“It’s in the hands of the only people who can do anything now.”

“What is wrong with you? Jessie is everything to me. And I know she has to mean something to you too, James. I don’t know how they do things in Boston, but here, we take care of our own.”

“Listen, Pete, I do care--more than you know. Give it another couple days. We’ll find her.”

∞

My father never wanted me to follow in his footsteps. He said that the military was no life for me. He felt that I had moved around enough and wanted me to be able to settle down somewhere like he never could. So I didn’t enlist. But I wanted desperately to continue his work--to punish bad people. I saw them everywhere, especially at school. Cutting in the lunch line. Cheating on tests. It didn’t matter what city or what school it was. They were all the same. From an early age I knew I was destined to do something about it, even if I couldn’t enlist. The first time it was personal. Thomas Hollander pushed me down and told me I couldn’t play kickball anymore. I wasn’t good enough and never would be. I knew he had to be one of the bad people my father told me about. Rage swelled up inside me. I tackled Thomas to the ground and began beating his face with my fists. It was ethereal. I never knew if Thomas got the message or not--if he understood what had happened to him. It didn’t matter. The others would understand. My father and I moved with his voluntary reassignment.

1

Peter helped Jessie down from the roof. She fell into him, but he supported her weight and wrapped his arms around her waist. The three walked to the curb in front of her house and stood for a minute taking in the last moments of a wonderful evening.

“We still gonna go on that bike ride tomorrow?” Peter said turning to James.

“Sure, if you want to.”

“Be at my house at nine, sound good?”

“Yeah. Goodnight guys.”

Peter and Jessie watched as James disappeared around the corner.

“So, bike riding tomorrow, huh?” Jessie asked.

“Uh yeah, sorry Jess, I wanna see you--but you know how it is--Guy time and all.”

“Well, why can’t I go?”

“Jessie, we’ve talked about this before. Sometimes I just want to spend time with the guys. In this case, just one guy, but--I mean--we all got to hang out tonight, didn’t we? It’s not like we have to see each other every day, right?”

“I suppose,” said Jessie.

“Alright then, I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep well, okay?”

“Sure.”

Peter hopped into his Jeep and sped off down the street leaving Jessie on her porch watching. A few minutes into his short commute home, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

“Hey baby,” he said, “Yeah don’t worry. She won’t be coming around tomorrow at all. Margot, I just said--yeah. Yeah we can sleep in. Okay I’ll see you at my house in a few. Bye.”

2

The notes came day after day.

Can you save her?

She asks about you.

I’m still waiting, Peter.

He brought the second, third and fourth to the police. Once he realized that they might never stop, he gave up. He stopped showing them to James after a week. He just lay in his bed, thinking of Jessie. He heard James knock on his door every morning.

“Pete, you can’t stay like this,” he’d say.

Peter never answered.

1

Peter forgot to set his alarm clock. He awoke to a pounding on his door and the morning sunlight banding across his face.

“Hey. Hey! Get up. Margot, someone’s here, get up now!”

Peter rolled out of bed and pulled his pants on. Margot stretched, yawned and turned over.

“Hey, what did I just tell you? Get the fuck up--now!”

“Calm down. Just go see who it is. You said she wasn’t going to be coming around at all today, right? Don’t be so paranoid; it’s pathetic.”

“It’s not her, it’s James. I told him to meet me here at nine. I didn’t set the alarm.”

“Well good job, dumb ass.” Margot tossed the comforter off in frustration.

“Look, just play it cool. I’m sure he won’t care. I mean, I hardly know the guy.”

“Whatever, just get rid of him and come back to bed.”

“No, you’re leaving.”

“What? Peter, you asshole, you said we could sleep in,” Margot snapped, throwing her pillow at him.

“Just shut up and put some clothes on. You’re leaving. I’m going on a bike ride.”

“Oh,” she said, perking up. “Can I go?”

“No.”

He went to the front door and swung it open. James stood on the porch wearing bike shorts, an old Boston Marathon t-shirt, and his helmet.

“I’ve been standing out here for twenty minutes, what the hell were you doing in there, man?”

“Oh, I...I just forgot to set the alarm. Had a late night,” Peter said breaking a smile.

“Heh, I see. So, how late did you stay at Jessie’s after I-”

Peter’s heart skipped. He leaned forward waiting for James to complete his thought, but noticed that his eyes were looking passed him into the house. Peter turned and saw Margot standing in the hallway. He turned back and his eyes met James’. No one said anything. Peter looked back at Margot. She was trying not to laugh. That made Peter furious. He turned to explain. James smiled.

“This is a little awkward,” Peter said.

“Why should it be?” Margot said walking toward the door, “You told me you hardly know this guy.”

Peter quickly met James’ eyes again. His smile had disappeared. Peter tried to read him, but James was a statue. His heart beat wildly. Suddenly, James’ smile flashed across his face again.

“I guess you learn something new everyday, right?” he said coolly.

Peter let out a small sigh of relief.

“So you’re not goin--”

“Let’s get going on that bike ride Pete.”

“Oh, right. Let me get my stuff.”

2

Something tickled Peter’s nose and he woke with a start. A piece of paper, folded once in the center fell to the floor next to his bed. He threw his blankets off and grabbed the note.

168 Pioneer Rd.
Beatty, Nevada

He looked at the clock: 3:37 am. Peter threw on some jeans and ran out to his Jeep. He didn’t even put on shoes. He grabbed his map book from under the passenger seat and looked up Beatty, Nevada. Over one hundred miles northwest of Las Vegas. He drove as fast as he could up I-15. The hours passed slowly. The sky grew to a yellowed grey with the morning sun as he came through the Cajon Pass. Las Vegas seemed abandoned at eight in the morning.

Peter came upon the outskirts of Beatty as the morning was coming to a close. It was a very small town, just outside The Nevada Proving Grounds. There was no main road. He tore down the narrow streets and was through to the other side in a matter of minutes. Once outside the town, the pavement ended; rocks and dirt clods rattled the undercarriage of the jeep. A large cloud of dust trailed it. Peter could feel he was close; he drove for what seemed like ages.

The back of the screen was visible for ten minutes before he actually arrived. Peter pulled up to what looked like a shanty in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing except for the shack and the massive screen--what was once part of a drive-in movie theater. A mailbox sat at the end of the driveway. Scratched into the rusting metal were the numbers 1-6-8. Peter hopped out and ran to the front door of the building. He burst in, but the one room building was void of life. A neatly made bed sat across from him with a clock tacked to the wall above it.

12:03 pm

Peter’s eyes shot back to the bed. He couldn’t breathe. A large black stain surrounded Margot’s body at the foot of the bed. Peter hadn’t seen her in over a week--not since Jessie had disappeared. Peter ran back outside.

“Jessie!” he called out.

“Jessie!”

Peter’s voice cracked with the strain of screaming. He ran around the shanty, looking for some hidden door--any sign that Jessie might be there. The screen sat ominously in the distance. He ran towards it, screaming her name, hoping he would find something. He collapsed half way to the screen and lay, face down, breathing in the dust.

“It can’t be,” he said softly. “It can’t be too late.”

He rose and walked back to the building.

Peter creaked open the door, afraid to look in Margot’s direction. He moved to the other side of the room, staying as far away as possible. On the wall adjacent to the bed was a desk. He had not noticed it the first time. Peter’s heart was about to explode out of his chest, and he was shaking violently. He walked to the desk, afraid of what he might see. He threw the desk chair over and punched the air in frustration and defeat. On the desk was a revolver and another note folded neatly in half. He picked the gun up and opened the chamber. One bullet.

∞

Sometimes it’s so hard to go through with what must be done. I really grow to like a person, then I realize that they’re not who I thought they were. I see the bad in them, and I have to take care of it. The planning is what is the most meticulous. The Where When and How. It has to be quick. Not necessarily easy, just instant. Preferably not messy but that’s difficult unless you use pills or strangulation. Those are not quick. And it’s too hard to convince them to go through with it. I like guns. Just pull the trigger and it’s over. Most people have seen enough movies or maybe even know someone who has done it before. Barrel under the chin or in the mouth. Sometimes against the temple. The problem with the chin is that you can miss. The angle might be too acute, sending the bullet through the roof of the mouth and out the nose. Or they might change their mind right at the last second: then all you get is a shattered cheekbone. Most people aren’t willing to give it a second go after a misfire. Holding it to your temple has similar setbacks, but is usually accurate. But the mouth--that’s where you can’t go wrong. You just jam that barrel in and no matter where it’s pointed, you’re bound to hit something. My grandfather had a collection of old Civil War and Wild West-type revolvers. Real fancy things with long barrels. No one but me and my dad knew he even had them. They weren’t mine to take when Granddad died, but I knew my dad would understand. Oh Peter, I liked you right from the beginning. Right until that fucking slut ruined everything. Both of you ruined everything. But when I heard her say, What does it matter, you said you didn’t even know this guy--Oh Peter. How could you tell her such a thing? I guess it really was the truth. It still hurt though. I got to see you hurt. I bet you had never hurt so much before in your whole life. Friends aren’t forever, Peter. Remember that.

3

James slowly opens the door to the shack at 168 Pioneer Road and pokes his head in. What a mess. Most of Peter is on the floor, but there are pieces all over the wall, the desk and the bed. The smell is getting bad. Margot has been there since yesterday. The military neatness of the room is still maintained underneath the blood smatter. James steps in, carefully maneuvering around the large pools of blood. He looks at Peter thoughtfully. Peter’s hair is matted down and crimson at the top of his neck. The bullet had blown a large hole through base of his skull and James could see that Peter’s death was instant. James turns and leaves through the door.

He takes a gas mask from back seat of his car in order to cover his face. It is old--from the First World War. He walks quickly towards the massive screen. The sky is so blue. A few wisps of cloud are visible very high over the mountains. The air is hot and very dry; James becomes thirsty after just a few minutes. He is almost there. The desert brush had collected heavily in an area half way between the shack and the screen. James pushes the shrubs aside and wipes the red earth away from a steel door. He pulls the mask over his head. It is so hot and stuffy. James fishes a key out of his pocket, takes the lock off the door and opens it with little effort. He walks down the short staircase, ducking to get inside the shelter and pulls the short chain connected to the light bulb that hangs from the ceiling. Inside the room are a mattress and a small cooler containing bottles of water and loaves of bread.

Jessie lays on the mattress; her eyes are pale and listless. Dry tears stain her cheeks. In one motion, James sweeps her up, swinging one of her arms over his shoulder. She makes little noise. He grabs a couple of water bottles; they walk together up the stairs and into the desert heat. James helps her to Peter’s Jeep and into the back of it. He blindfolds her and binds her hands. She says nothing. James pulls the gas mask off and wipes the sweat from his eyes.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be okay now,” he whispers. “Just remember--”

He looks at her; she is quivering and covered in sweat.

“It’s okay. Stay here. Someone is coming for you.”

James sighs and removes the binding on her hands.

“My eyes--” Jessie asks.

“No. Here’s some water. Don’t drink it too fast,” he whispers, putting two bottles in her lap.

“--Why?”

“Because it may be a while--”

“No....Why?”

James pauses. She is looking at him through the blindfold. He squats down next to her ear.

“Because you’re a good person. Maybe you’ll understand...”

“Understand what?” she asks, her voice cracking and fading.

James does not respond.

“Understand what!” she screams at him. Her tears dampen the blindfold.

“Understand what...”

“I’m--sorry.”

James turns and walks to his car. The sun has turned the wisps of cloud into pink streaks across an orange and yellow sky. He drives off toward the bright lights of Las Vegas, a cloud of dust trailing behind him.

Bells

The Beckett’s dining room was a conservative, burgundy affair with flowered curtains over the windows. The table sat eight; the chairs were dark cherrywood with a nice, padded seat. The tablecloth was similar to the curtains, but not as dark. It matched the color of the walls. A modest candelabra sat in the center with two vases containing fresh flowers on either side. Behind the head seat was the china cabinet. It matched the color of the chairs and contained the Beckett Family china: handed down for many generations through Harold Beckett’s line. It was simple but elegant and perfect for entertaining. The crystal had been a wedding gift from Harold’s parents. Louise’s parents could only afford to offer help for the wedding, which turned out to be an inconsequential amount; the Beckett’s wanted their son and new daughter-in-law to have the best. The silver was also new--Harold and Louise decided to purchase it while traveling in New England just two years before.

On the top shelf of the cabinet sat Louie’s favorite piece. It was her only heirloom: a crystal bell. It was hand blown, and slightly frosted on top. When the morning sun crept in between the curtains, it collided with the bell, scattering brilliance all over the dining room.

Louise often sat opposite the head of the table early in the morning. It was her sunrise. She would watch the bell and the line of sunlight as it crept up, anticipating the spark. On the night of her wedding, her grandmother came to her with it.

“Keep it safe, dear,” she said, “and may it bless your household as it has mine.”

* * *

“Dear, could you help me set the table?”

Mr. Beckett peeked over the top of his newspaper. Though young, he appeared distinguished and carried himself with great confidence. Grumbling, he hoisted himself up from his worn, leather armchair. He sauntered into the kitchen.

“Harry, you’re still wearing your robe and slippers! Our guests will be here any minute.”

“Okay, okay.”

Mrs. Beckett hurried back and forth from the oven to the stove top to the refrigerator. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her husband leaning against the island eating an apple from the fruit bowl that sat on the counter. She ignored him for as long as she could, mixing, stirring and checking the dinner she had spent all day preparing.

“Can you please help me Harry. I’m a mess, I need to fix my hair--”

“Louise, you look fine. You’ve never looked more beautiful,” Harry said, examining the teeth marks in his apple.

She looked down at her stained apron and her hands, red and sore from gripping spoons and mixing bowls. She picked up a dish towel, wiped the countertop, threw it down next to the sink, and then removed her apron.

“I have to get ready. Please Harry, all I need you to do is set the table and put on your coat and shoes--they’re on the living room couch. That’s all.”

Mrs. Beckett went back to her room and sat at the vanity mirror. She looked at the deep wrinkles that had formed too soon on her face. Taking her liquid foundation, she dotted and smeared the lines. She rosied her cheeks and put on bright red lipstick, transforming herself into a living china doll. She stood and smoothed out her dress. Harry bought it for her the year before while he was on business in Rome. It was short and tight, and not very flattering to her, but she didn’t want to hurt Harry’s feelings. He loved to see her in it.

She hurried back to the dining room to check on Mr. Beckett’s progress with the table setting. She walked in on an empty table and Mr. Beckett sitting in the adjacent living room in his armchair again. His robe hung on the coat rack and his slippers sat at the foot. His shoes and coat sat on the couch where she had left them.

“Don’t worry, I know,” Harry said, looking up from his newspaper, and nodding towards the garments.

Mrs. Beckett didn’t mention the table settings and began setting it herself. As she finished the third of eight settings the doorbell rang and made her jump, nearly knocking over the wine glass.

“You really should try and relax a bit, Louise. Everyone will think I’m not taking proper care of you,” Harry said getting up to answer the door.

Mr. and Mrs. Finney entered quickly removing their coats and exchanging handshakes and hugs. Both made themselves right at home: Mr. Finney walking right to the back porch with Mr. Beckett to have a cigar; Mrs. Finney went straight to the kitchen to help herself to a glass of wine. Mrs. Beckett followed her around the kitchen as Mrs. Finney talked to the air in front of her.

“Your kitchen is so lovely, Louise--I just love it.”

“Oh, thank you, we--”

“So, the Callaghans are coming tonight?”

“Yes, Evangeline called the other day and said they would.”

“Wonderful. David Callaghan is such a gorgeous man.”

The two giggled together and moved to the living room to enjoy their wine.

The rest of the party arrived as the evening progressed. The Lowensons, two lumpy accountants and art collectors, arrived shortly after Mr. and Mrs. Finny. The Callaghans made their grand entrance twenty minutes into the party: Evangeline Callaghan with a bright, feather boa; her husband, shoulders down, followed her at a distance.

The conversation fluttered pleasantly through dinner and plenty of wine.

“Oh, Louise,” said Evangeline suddenly, interrupting the another one of Mr. Lowenson’s long anecdotes. Everyone fell silent and tried to fix his and her eyes on what Mrs. Callaghan was looking at.

“Where did you find that stunning piece?”

“The bell you mean?” Mrs. Beckett asked.

“It is quite beautiful,” said Mr. Lowenson. “Have you had it appraised, my dear?”

“Why no, I never--”

“Do you think it’s worth much Arnie?” Mr. Beckett asked.

“Oh well, I’m not sure. Antiques are a hobby of mine, I could look at it if you like.”

Mrs. Beckett fidgeted in her seat.

“I’m not sure I need--I mean it was my grandmother’s so I don’t think that--”

“Oh nonsense Louise!” Mr. Beckett interjected. “It’s about time we found out what that thing is actually worth. If you wouldn’t mind Arnie.”

“No, not at all.”

Mrs. Beckett rose to get her grandmother’s bell, but her husband pushed his chair out, blocking her path. He threw open the glass cabinet doors and reached up to grab the magnificent bell. His fingers could barely graze the smooth surface, but he inched it ever closer to the edge. He finally gripped it with both hands, but as he did, lost his balance, dropping the bell onto the floor. It shattered and spread across the room, sparkling for an instant, then fading into languor.

Contact

My eyes are killing me
They always do around this time
Itching and burning and wanting
To jump out of my face

I rub my right one
It hurts the most
Mom puts her hand on mine
I know it’s been years she says

If I only I could take these things out
If only it could be cut out completely
Dad stands in the doorway
He has rubbed his eyes red too

The Science of Dr. Victor Frankesntein: Psuedo-science in Shelley's Frankenstein

I wrote this for an exam on the Romantic Period in British Literature for my Survey of Contemporary British Literature course at Cal State Long Beach.

The Enlightenment was a period during the eighteenth century which was marked by the dismissal of faith and spirituality. These ideals were replaced with the rationality of science and reason. People thrived on and searched for scientific explanations within nature, and held them as the closest to absolute truth they could ever come. Romanticism, the literary period which followed after the Enlightenment, found that Science did not have all the answers and that spirituality was necessary in order to find truth. In her novel, Frankenstein, Mary Shelley exemplifies the ideals of the Romantics through her character Dr. Victor Frankenstein. She, as Charles Schug writes, “tries to talk about--and thus define, to set the boundaries of, to limit--what is essentially a purely subjective creative experience and hence an ultimately indefinable, illimitable, objectively unfathomable experience” (609). Shelley creates an experience that no rational science could define or contain. Throughout the novel, Frankenstein’s science is shown to be in direct contradiction with the science of The Enlightenment, thereby giving credit to the idea that reason and rationality are not the only scientific truths.

Dr. Frankenstein begins relating his sad tale to Robert Walton by telling the story of his childhood. He makes it a point to tell Walton how he became interested in science because, “it became the torrent which, in its course...swept away all my hopes and joys” (Shelley 20). Science is the root of Frankenstein’s misery. It is the single spark that ignites the chain of events that lead to his ruin. Although critics, “have typically downplayed the importance” of Frankenstein’s early reading of Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus because “’he clearly rejects the works...in favor of men who wrote and experimented with the new science’” (Peterfreund 79), they are still important to note because they represent the spiritual side of science that Shelley was searching for. As Frankenstein states above, they are the foundation of his study in science. They also become the basis for Shelley’s narrative.

These voices of spiritual science are contrasted with voices from the Enlightenment, represented by authority figures in Frankenstein’s life. When he goes to his father to tell him of his discover of Cornelius Agrippa, his father says, “’Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this, it is sad trash’” (Shelley 20). He describes his first visit to a professor at the University who tells him that “’...every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely lost’” (Shelley 25). This remains consistent with the basis of scientific ideals during the Enlightenment: spirituality has no place in science. Although Frankenstein admits that “All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable” (Shelley 22), spiritual science is the foundation of his interest and study in science, as stated above. Stuart Peterfreund writes that Paracelsus especially “does not merely inform the novel’s science--or its critique of science... Rather [it] informs the protagonist of the novel’s psychological development and the novel’s narrative structure, both of which combine to offer a cultural critique...” (79). It is spiritual science which guides and develops the progression of the narrative. The narrative is completely rooted in it.

Charles Schug writes that “Shelley seeks to force the reader into participation of [her narrative]” and “[uses] narrative to establish a sense of order, of logic and rationality” (609) just as her three narrators do--especially Frankenstein. Shelley constructs a narrative that follows the rules of science; however, the “science” that she bases it on is not the science of the Enlightenment. It is the fantastical and spiritual science that Victor Frankenstein studies and uses to create the monster. It is this science that establishes the “sense of order, of logic and rationality.” It is a rationale based in the spiritual. The reader has no choice but to follow a line of logic and order based in beliefs that the science of the Enlightenment completely dismissed. One of the major themes of the novel, therefore, clearly centers around the idea that a rational science is, in fact, not rational; it requires faith in the spiritual.

Works Cited

Peterfreund, Stuart. “Composing What May Not Be ‘Sad Trash’: A Reconsideration of Mary Shelley’s Use of Paracelsus in Frankenstein.” Studies in Romanticism. 43.1 (2004): 79-92.

Schug, Charles. “The Romantic Form of Shelley’s Frankenstein.” Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900. 17.4 (1977): 607-619.

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus. Classics of Horror. Ed. The Ann Arbor Media Group, LLC. Ann Arbor: Borders Classics, 2003. 3-152.

A Man Stumbles in the Dark

Evangelical culture has had a major effect on Native Americans in our country. From the time of the Spanish founding missions along the California coast, to zealous individuals who seek to save all those who are lost, Native Americans have been a central target group for Evangelicals. In Leslie Marmon Silko’s short story, “The Man to Send Rain Clouds,” the priest is an excellent representation of this type of person. His entire focus is on saving the Native Americans in his community from darkness. It is the priest, however, who stumbles in the dark in his attempts to save them because he does not understand or respect Native American culture.

In the beginning of the story, the first encounter between the priest and the Native Americans shows the reader the stark contrast between the two cultures. Father Paul is portrayed as very forward and somewhat intrusive: “ ‘Did you find old Teofilo?’ he asked loudly...’[He] is a very old man. You really shouldn’t allow him to stay at the sheep camp alone’ “ (120). The Native Americans have just found Teofilo dead. Their demeanor, however, is very quiet and reserved. Silko, who is herself a Native American, casts an unattractive light on the priest right from the beginning. Even though he had no idea that Teofilo was dead, he is loud and telling these two men how to take care of a relative. Silko sets the reader up to see the story from the Native Americans’ point of view because most people have never seen through their eyes. Because of this, the actions of the father are put into the same context.

Leon goes to Father Paul to ask him to sprinkle holy water on Teofilo’s grave and the reader is exposed to the Franciscan’s lifestyle and thinking. “The priest dragged a chair out of the kitchen and offered it to Leon,” (122) indicating that he does not consider Leon a friend because he had a “brown sofa [and] green armchair” (122) in the living room, but did not want Leon to sit on either. It also might tell the reader that Father Paul does not get many visitors because he has nowhere for them to sit. This could also mean that he is lonely. Because he is a priest, he must remain celibate, but that does not mean he must be lonely and without friends. Christianity teaches that all Christians are part of the family and body of Christ meaning that even if you are alone, you can be satisfied and happy. Silko shows the reader that Father Paul really is very lonely when he looks:

...out the window at the patio full of shadows and the dining-room windows of the nuns’ cloister across the patio. The curtains were heavy, and the light from within faintly penetrated; it was impossible to see the nuns inside eating supper. (122)

He cannot even see the nuns, let alone speak with them. He is even separated from his own people. The priest is completely isolated and alone. Evangelicals claim that those that are lost are the ones who feel alone because of the shroud of sin that is pulled over them; however, the father is one who is in this position not the “lost” Native Americans. Loneliness can really wear down on a person, especially when coupled with difficulty at achieving a goal in his work.

The padre has obviously been trying to save Leon and the other Native Americans in the community. He says to Leon and Ken in the beginning, “ ‘I hope I’ll be seeing you at Mass this week--we missed you last Sunday’ “ (120). The reader can assume he has been evangelizing to them for quite some time. When he finds out that Teofilo has died and Leon did not ask him to perform a Christian burial, he is not happy and says, “ ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was dead? I could have brought the Last Rites anyway....For a Christian burial it was necessary’ “ (122). All the priest can see is his own rituals and traditions. There is nothing outside of that. This is demonstrated when he sits down and picks up a magazine with “colored pages full of lepers and pagans” (122) suggesting that he considers them one in the same. To Father Paul, the Native Americans are pagans and their traditions: pagan.

Again, it is ironic that the priest feels so negatively about the Native Americans’ way of life because he is the one who, to the reader, seems miserable. Leon even notes that, “his blue eyes looked tired” (122). He is tired of trying daily to save these people only to have one of them ask him to participate in one of their rituals. This is contrasted with the Native Americans who, while they do not willingly and wholly accept the priest’s culture, they are willing to coexist and allow the Franciscan to continue to believe what he chooses. They do this amongst the bombardment of the church in their lives. It is ever-present. This is illustrated through the ringing of the church bells: “It was noontime now because the church bells rang the Angelus” (121). Time, in Western culture, is a vital part of life and the church bells keep it for the whole town. It reminds everyone that the church will forever be in the background of their lives.

At the end of the story, Father Paul has a final confrontation with the Native Americans’ pagan rituals. It is difficult to see his motive for agreeing to participate, but the reader could speculate that it was simply his own weariness and desire to be around other people that caused him to break down and participate. Even after he agrees he is still weary that it might be “some perverse Indian trick” (122). He does not trust them because they are not Christians like him. He is even confused by his own decision. As he sprinkles the water it “reminded him of something--he tried to remember what it was, because the thought if he could remember he might understand this” (122). He does not understand his own reasons for agreeing to come to Teofilo’s grave. He is lost and struggling to find reason, just as he thinks the Native American’s are lost because they are not Christians.

This story is told through the eyes of Native Americans. The reader is given their perspective and is forced to draw conclusions based on it. Father Paul is presented as an overbearing, but very lonely and sad man, while Leon and the other Native Americans are shown as patient, reserved and understanding. Evangelical Christians, as Silko points out in the story, attempt to bring those lost and in darkness to the light. The irony is that because of the father’s lifestyle and his complete unwillingness to accept the Native Americans for who they are, he is the one who is in darkness.

Works Cited

Silko, Leslie Marmon. “The Man to Send Rain Clouds.” Literature for Composition: Essays, Fiction, Poetry, and Drama. Ed. Sylvan Barnet et al. 7th ed. New York. Longman, 2005, 120-123.

Homeless

An essay that I worked on for nine weeks in Advanced Compostion. It was open topic.

“Maybe that’s all family really is; a group of people that miss the same imaginary place.” - Zach Braff, Garden State


Sitting on the plane, just as it was taking off on my first trip to Denver, I tried to envision my new home: a sloping green lawn with a narrow concrete path and stairs leading to the front door carved into its side. Flowers trimming the edges of it. A basketball hoop hanging over the driveway. I shook myself out of imagination realizing that my mind was stuck on an image of my old home. I sat by the window and looked down upon the quickly shrinking California coastline. The sky was a brilliant, September blue becoming deeper and deeper as it rose from the horizon. The ocean had never sparkled more; it was green covered in flashes of blinding white. The beach umbrellas, striped and dotted, shrank quickly: first becoming small dots and then dissolving completely into the sand below. My brothers are sure going to miss this, I thought.

As the plane started its descent into the solid grey sky that hung ominously over the Denver area, I decided that I had to at least try to picture what Colorado looked like. I imagined rocky terrain with large patches of moss, evergreen trees, and fields of wildflowers and grass. Everyone was waiting for me when I arrived at the terminal: Mom, Dad and my brothers Mark and Andrew. We all piled into the Suburban and got on the highway. I was able to see immediately that what I had imagined was completely wrong. Everything was flat, brown, and dead right up to the foot of the Rocky Mountains.

My parents moved to Louisville, a town just a few miles east of Boulder, the summer before my junior year of college. My dad was offered a promotion in the company he worked for, but in order to take it he had to move his family to where the corporate headquarters was. He spent many sleepless nights for months trying to figure out the right decision. In the end he couldn’t turn down the offer. I wasn’t upset with him though. He had two sons in college, myself at Cal State Long Beach and my brother Paul starting his freshman year at USC, and a couple that would be college-bound in just a few short years. I knew that he didn’t have any other choice if he wanted to support us.

My parents tried to find some way to keep our home, but it just wasn’t going to be possible. We had to say goodbye to our residence of seventeen years. Seventeen Christmas’s. Ninety-five birthdays. Countless team parties: baseball, basketball, water polo, volleyball. I played catch with my dad in the backyard; he taught me how to throw a baseball. Mark ran down the wood floored halls with his socks on, slipped, and had to be taken to the emergency room for stitches. My brothers and I wrestled in a bedroom that two of us shared: jumping from bed to bed and then on top of each other. I asked my girlfriend to marry me on our front lawn one freezing December night when I was eighteen because I wanted to know what it felt like. My arms were around Paul and my Dad as all six of us stood in a circle inside the empty living room praying for protection as we were about to go our separate ways and leave forever.

In preparation for my family’s departure, I moved into an apartment in South Pasadena with three other guys a couple months before the big move. The apartment was in constant chaos: dishes everywhere, soiled carpet, waking up to find strangers asleep in the living room. Our kitchen sink was festering with mold and stench from weeks of meals slowly decomposing into a green and blue ecosystem buried under plate after plate and pan after pan. Our one bathroom was perpetually musty like an old basement that hasn’t been visited in years. The rim of the toilet caked in dry urine. It was the furthest from home that I could have been, and once they moved, I began to realize that my apartment could not be my home--just my apartment.

Home is not just a place where you lay your head. You have to have family; whether that means your actually family or friends that are as close as family, it is vital. My family gave me support. They loved me no matter what was going on in my life. I could always depend on them. My roommates began as friends but eventually became strangers. No one wanted to claim any responsibility for what was happening around the apartment. Everyone figured, “As long as I don’t say anything, I won’t have to do anything.” An unspoken tension arose between us, something that never happened at home. I was reminded of the first line of Ezra Pound’s poem “In a Station of the Metro.”

The apparition of these faces in a crowd.

That’s all my roommates were to me: an apparition. I passed them by going about my daily routine as if they weren’t even there. They were ghosts haunting my apartment with spilled beer and cigarette butts. Family is an essential part of what home is, and that was not happening at my apartment. I longed to be back with my family and to see the new place that I would be calling home.

As we arrived and started to pull into the garage, I thought to myself I can do this. This can fill the void. We got out of the car, my brothers grabbed my bags, and we entered the house.

“Welcome home!” my mom said, giving me a big hug. I wanted fully embrace that statement: more than anything. I wanted it to feel the same as it did just a few months before. I wanted rescue from the hell that I had been living in but I only felt half of what she said. I did feel welcome. I could breathe a sigh of relief because I knew I was with my family again; however, it was at that exact moment I realized that this was not and could never be home. While I had family, I was still missing a vital part of what home was for me: memories, a history, a childhood. This new house was a mystery. Not just the house but the city and the state my family now lived in were mysteries as well. I was a foreigner in what was supposed to be my home too.

I smiled because my mom gave me a hug and I hadn’t had one of those in a while. She gave me a tour of their new home: five bedrooms, five bathrooms, two living rooms, furnished basement, two offices, dining room, breakfast room, and a massive kitchen. I had to admit that it was certainly a step up from the old place but it was empty. Even with all the new furniture and some of the old, as well as our pets, the old t.v., my brothers and my parents, the house was completely empty to me. I felt disconnected from everything that was happening there. I saw schedules for my brothers’ sporting events that I knew nothing about and would not be attending. There were welcome letters from a church I had never been to. I heard messages on the answering machine left by people I had never met. I didn’t feel comfortable answering the phone because I didn’t live there, had never and would never live there.

Where could I go now? I was counting on their new home to be mine as well but there was no way that it could be and I was certainly not looking forward to returning to my situation back in California. I realized that I was homeless. I still am. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t for a while; many college students live away from their families. Few can say, however, that their parents no longer live in the house they grew up in. That is where I am different. When I go to visit my parents, it is just my parents’ house never my home. Only family and memories can turn a house into a home.

When I finally accepted the fact that I was homeless, I decided that I would only have a home again when I started a family of my own. Before that I will just continue to live with friends who come and go and in places that have no meaning to me. Once I start my own family, I will begin to build my own memories. I will have my own house, my own children, my own family. It is also apparent, however, that home will never mean the same thing to me ever again. Even though I will be forming memories with my own family, they will be completely new and different. I will never be able to return to what I thought of as home but eventually my homeless wandering will end. I will once again be able to call the place where I lay my head home.

The Importance of Title: An In-depth Analysis of Pound's "In a Station of the Metro"

Ezra Pound was one of the greatest poets of the Modern movement. This poem proves it.

Without its title, Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” may, at first glance, seem like an awkward description of some abstract thought that happened to jump into his mind one day. There is no coherence, no clarity; the words are absolutely meaningless. The title tells us everything we need to know in order to dissect the poem. The title gives the words context, and prepares the reader’s mind for the descriptions that follow.

Pound wrote during a time when industrialization was fully spreading through American culture. Public transportation was an innovation and was responsible for bringing about a massive paradigm shift in how people got from one place to another. His specific use of the article “a” instead of “the” gives the impression that the metro is everywhere. It does not matter where you are; the metro is a standard part of life. Modernists like Pound focused their work on seeing the world in different ways. On a literal level the metro forced people to see their world in a different way, and Pound reflects that feeling in the structure of his poem; it is an unfamiliar style for the time and forces the reader to focus strictly on the words presented in front of him. Pound is asking the reader for their unrestricted interpretation. He has set the context with the title, but the rest is up to the reader.

A metro evokes images of concrete and steel. We think about the smell: musty and wet, smeared with oil. The train is also conjured; the squeal created by the brakes as it pulls up to the platform, and the rush of wind that brushes your face as it disappears into the darkness of the tunnel. The focus in this poem, however, is on the people that ride the metro, hurrying to and from work, making the metro an integral part of their lives. It is this image that comes to mind with the word metro that makes the first line of the poem so fascinating. An apparition is a ghost -- something that is transparent, vague and shapeless. The crowd of people waiting in the station are formless just as an apparition is.

Many conclusions can be drawn from this comparison. The people in the station are in a trance; day in and day out they take the metro to and from their livelihood. It is a vital part of their every day lives, but they look emotionally dead because their faces are blank and indistinguishable from each other. They are probably even mentally blank when they ride the metro, not thinking about anything except what they will do when they get to work or arrive at home. Pound is questioning the existence of these people. Not whether they actually exist but whether their lives have any meaning at all because they are slaves to their schedules.

Pound then starts to reverse these questions with the next line. Petals are parts of a flower. They are usually white and when viewed from a distance, they all look the same. This remains consistent with the word apparition and the image of people’s faces being indistinguishable from each other. The outline of each petal melts into the next from a distance too; not only is it impossible to tell the difference between two petals, but you cannot see where one ends and the other begins. When you examine the individual petals closely, however, you will notice that there are differences between them and the definition of each one becomes visible. This can be used to develop the interpretation of the poem. The faces are only vague and shapeless from a distances, but if you were to stop and examine two people side by side, you would see that they are different from each other.

The second line also adds a new dimension to the question about existence. Petals are delicate and fragile, just as life is. A bough is a large branch on a tree, and petals that come from trees may stick to the bough for a time, but eventually they will fall off and die. Life is fleeting, and can slip away so easily.

Pound compares the fragility of life with its meaning. With life as fragile as it is, perhaps readers are being called to examine whether or not what they are doing with it is meaningful. This revalation is only possible because of the poem’s title. If it had been anything else, a number, a single word, untitled, it would not have worked. The title gives the reader a specific image which he can put the lines into, and be able to draw his own conclusions.

Strangers in a Car

A friend showed me a song called "Strangers in a Car" and asked if I could write a short story based on it. This is what developed.

Elliot stumbled down the street aimlessly, open briefcase tightly gripped and flopping around in one hand, and a number of blank sheets of paper strapped to his chest with his other arm.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

Fourth interview this month. You have to stop bringing that stupid goddamn suitcase, you idiot. Fourth rejection. Fourth humiliation. Fourth -

“Mr.......Benson, is it? Why do you think you’d be an asset to our team here at Starbucks?”

“Well I...I....I can....and I’m very.....Let me consult my paperwork here.”

Nervous hands. Those damn shaky hands. Down goes the coffee into the manager’s lap. Down goes the paper onto the floor.

Great job, Elliot. Now he knows you’re a fake.

It was people that did it. Anyone. Elliot could not handle other people. He knew that he couldn’t. He addressed the problem on a number of occasions in his head, but he couldn’t figure any other way to get around it beside getting out of his mother’s house to find a job. He was a problem solver.

“Mr. Benson, if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you sir?” the manager said.

“Forty years old sir. Forty years old. Forty.”

“Perhaps this isn’t the best work environment for you Mr. Benson. This can be a very high-stress job, and it just doesn’t seem like you’re suited for it. Thank you for your time.”

“Oh no, no. Thank you...sir, I’ll just...be going now.”

Now stumbling down the street.

Don’t look back.

“Elliot Benson?” said a strangely familiar voice with a rich Indian accent.

Elliot paused and looked behind himself, eyes passing over a beige station wagon, but he immediately realized the voice was coming from the vehicle that was parked on the street. Elliot backed up against the wall of The Smoke Stack, a dirty cigar shop, dreading contact with another complete stranger.

“Mr. Benson. Do not be alarmed sir. Please, approach.”

Elliot bent over at a ninety degree angle, peering in the passenger side window to see who was speaking to him. A small man with dark brown skin sat behind the wheel. He had white hair around his ears, but the top of his head reflected the bright spring sun and matched the rest of his coloring. Under his nose was a neatly trimmed mustache, and his lips were large and naturally pursed slightly, making his bottom lip stick out just a bit from his top. He wore a thin, white short-sleeve button up shirt that was only buttoned to the middle of his chest. It barely contained his round gut but allowed his stark white chest hair to roam free. The shirt was tucked into pink slacks which were held by a black belt with a shiny gold buckle.

The man wore a lot of gold, more than Elliot had seen most people wear. He had three gold chains around his neck, and on the hand Elliot could see resting on the steering wheel were a number of gold rings. The man smiled at Elliot exposing three or four gold teeth as well.

He stared in at the man for quite some time, not sure what to make of the situation, only moving to push his glasses back up on his nose when they slipped down to the tip. The man only smiled, meeting Elliot's eyes, not letting go of the gaze, never flinching.

Elliot suddenly felt as if his mind was detached from the rest of his body. He looked down and saw his feet stepping towards the car.

No, no, no, he thought, Don’t you take another step. Not one more step.

“Yes, please, come,” said the man reaching over to open the passenger door. Elliot stooped down and sat in the car.

“Oh, I am so happy you decided to join me Mr. Benson sir,” said the man. He stepped on the gas and took off down the street. Elliot looked at him in disbelief, and as soon as the car lurched forward, his mind collided with the rest of his body, like a plane crashing into a mountain side.

“Where are you taking me? Where are we going? What - What am I doing in here? Oh my - oh my God -” Elliot’s breathing became labored and he scratched at the window like an excited dog.

“Please, Mr. Benson, as I said before, do not be alarmed,” said the man.

Elliot was suddenly calmed. His breathing slowed almost to a stop. He wiped the snot from his nose with the sleeve of his jacket and picked his glasses up off of the floor.

“Well - what do you want from me?”

“Hmm?” said the man as if there was nothing at all, “Oh you mean, why you are in the - I see - Just to talk sir.”

“Talk?”

“Yes sir. Many apologies if my accent is troubling for you sir.”

“No no, that’s not it, I just....am not understanding what is happening here.”

The man didn’t reply. Elliot sat silent too, staring at his reflection in the side mirror.

“What do you want to talk about?” Elliot said after a few minutes.

“The weather,” said the man turning and smiling. “No no, I am just kidding you. A little humor, yes? We talk about....what ever you want to Mr. Benson sir.”

“Well for starters, who are you?”

“Me? Oh of course, my name is Jon.”

Elliot couldn’t help but laugh a little at the man’s name. It wasn’t at all what he was expecting it to be.

“Why do you laugh, sir?” Jon said smiling.

“Is that you’re real name?”

“It is very much my name sir. My parents had dreamed of moving to America....”

Elliot’s thoughts wandered during Jon’s speech about his immigrant parents. He didn’t care at all about him, or where he came from. He just wanted out of the car.

“....and now here I am with you Mr. Benson,” said Jon. Elliot suddenly realized that maybe
he should have been listening to what Jon had just told him if he wanted to know what was going on.

“So, why am -”

“Were you not listening to my tale?” Jon said, looking very concerned.

“Oh well, of course I was Jon. Why wou -”

“It is okaaaay Mr. Benson. Again, more humor. I knew you weren’t listening the entire time. Ooohooo, you are too much for me sir.” Jon said wiping a small tear from his cheek.

I’ve got to get out of here, Elliot thought. He eyed the lock and the door handle. As soon as we come to a red light.... It suddenly occurred to him that they had not stopped since they left the curb. Jon was making only right turns. They hadn’t gone far from where they had started, and by Elliot’s calculations, they would soon be back.

“May I inquire something of you Mr. Benson?”

Elliot nodded, quickly trying to figure out what the question was going to be.

Sex. Please don’t ask if I’m attracted to men. Please please please.

“We do not know each other, yes? Yet here we are, stuck in this...this ugly machine, moving at a pace that is much to dangerous to leave from. For how long, you do not know. And neither do I? So what do we do? What must we do?”

“Is this where I answer you?” asked Elliot, trying to end this conversation and change the topic to something that was more pertinent to him at the moment - leaving the car.

“No no no, sir, please allow me to continue. What must we do? We must converse with
each other, no? We must be friendly, cordial - ”

“Okay, okay,” said Elliot becoming frustrated. “What the hell is your point Jon?”

“My point is....My point....” Jon looked thoughtfully at the road for a minute. Elliot tried to focus on the same spot. White lines shot under the car. Laser beams from an unknown source, never ending .

“You and I are merely strangers in a car, yes?” said Jon.

Elliot nodded.

“So isn’t that all we really are sir? All of us, I mean. The car is a familiar setting, one that makes it easy to engage in polite conversation because we have to. That may sound shallow, but what is most important about what we are doing? We cast aside anger. Embarrassment. Fear. Those things go, fwoomp, out the window,” Jon said making a gesture with his arm toward the window and smiling, showing his gold spattered teeth.

Elliot didn’t respond. He sat on the words. He ate them, turned them around in his mouth, spit them out and ate again. Jon pulled the car to the curb and turned it off.

“That is all we ever are Mr. Benson.”

Alice Rewrites History

I am still editing and revising this story; even though it has been finished for almost a year. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

My mother, Alice, is dead. She lies in her casket, arms firmly at her sides, eyes sown shut. She probably didn’t want it to be that way - her eyes I mean. She would have wanted them to be open, cold and gray, so she could continue to watch the world for just a little longer; though by now she would undoubtedly be bored with the darkness.

I stood over her casket at the funeral, looking at her solemn, painted face. She was wearing her summer sun dress. Not my first choice, and most certainly not my father’s, but it was one of her very few requests.

- No more than ten people at any given time at the service or the reception
- Don’t visit me more than twice a year, my birth and deathdays will be fine.
- I want to wear my sun dress. The one with the sunflowers on it.

She wanted to wear her straw hat as well, but we talked her out of it, saying that the brim would get bent by the lid of the coffin, as well as her own head because she would be laying on it. She agreed that she didn’t want to wear a bent hat for all eternity.

I stood staring at her for a long time, not blinking. My sister, Betsy, came and stood next to me. She didn’t look like my mother at all: different from her in almost every way to be honest. The only thing she inherited was melodramatic skill. She was dressed like Jackie O., thick rimmed sunglasses and all. Her black, double breasted skirt-suit thing had big white buttons and white trim around all the edges. She had dark brown hair, light hazel eyes and fair skin; a stark contrast to our mother’s dirty blonde, blue and nicely tanned features.

“You’re waiting for her to wake up, aren’t you?” she asked me. “You know they’ve already sewn her eyes shut. And done all that other stuff to keep her from rotting before she goes in the ground. She isn’t waking up.”

I turned my stare to her. She looked back and smiled.

“I feel the same way, so don’t worry,” she said choking back tears, “like this is the grand finale of it all.”

I knew what she meant.

“How’s school?” I asked, trying to get as far away from it all as possible.

There was a sudden pause in the tears, a short, squeaky breath in - held. . . held. . . and then,
“Shut up Richard,” she said and stomped out the huge oak doors of the chapel.

I remained, looking next to myself at the empty space where she had been standing. The compressed air arm slammed the door shut and snapped my gaze to the back where I noticed my father was sitting in the last pew. He had a small, sharply pointed, beak-like nose, making it difficult to look him in the face for very long. He was dressed like he was ready to go on a business trip to the Bahamas.

Khakis, Hawaiian shirt, navy blue blazer and topsiders--no socks.

My father was a rich idiot. I shouldn’t have been so hard on him, at least not on that day, but if you wanted to sum up his existence in two words, those would be the ones. His father was rich too, but not an idiot. He was a self-made millionaire, inventor of the juice box. I never knew him. Not because he died before I was born or anything, but because he thought the same that I did about my father, he wasn’t too excited about being reminded constantly of the mistake he’d made. The obvious irony about the situation was that my father inherited the family fortune because he was an only child: probably the only thing my grandfather planned poorly.

The juice box company that he started doesn’t exist anymore. My dad sold it because he didn’t know anything about money, business, life. My mother had taken control of the financial matters after that. He just sat at home with the newspaper, pretending to read something important. As I looked at him sitting in that last pew, heels together, knees apart, hands folded neatly between them, quietly crying to himself, I felt sad but not sorry. Sad and angry.

* * *

The first time my mother told me someone was sick, I believed her wholeheartedly. Sick was the word that she always used. Sick lost its meaning. First it meant sad, or dead. Sad because it made me sad to hear that someone I knew was in that condition. Dead because she said they would be soon. It didn’t take very long for it to mean lie.

My friend Jacob was the first, and I was seven. I had been unhappy in school because I didn’t have any friends except for him. I wanted to be able to play on the jungle gym with all the popular kids, but I was restricted to the monkey bars, because none of them liked me.

“Richard, honey, tell Mommy what’s wrong,” she said one day after school. I was reluctant at first, because I didn’t want her to know I wasn’t a popular kid, but I gave in.

“None of the kids like me at school. Only stupid Jacob plays with me, but he’s boring,” I confessed.

“What’s wrong with Jacob?” she asked. “One friend is better than none, right?”

I just looked forward at the glove box in front of me. She couldn’t understand. In truth she really didn’t understand and that’s why she told me what she did.

I suppose it was because I had generally been a happy child until then. Before first grade, I never had to worry much about friends. Everyone was friendly, and when someone wasn’t, I could simply ignore them and move on. In first grade, everything changed. I got to play on the big playground. I got to bring my lunch to school. Most importantly, I saw the big kids. I saw what they did and how they interacted, and I wanted it. I wanted to be like them and have what they had - social structure, hierarchy, a caste system.

Things did not fall out as I had hoped. I blamed most of my poor social status on Jacob, an awkward, red haired boy who liked to color a lot. He would follow me around at recess, talking to the back of my head about He-Man and Skeletor, and I couldn’t stand it.

My mother probably wanted to save me from telling off the only friend that she thought I would have throughout the rest of my education. Or maybe she wanted to save Jacob from being told off by the only friend she thought he would have.

“Oh, Richard, you shouldn’t be upset with Jacob.” I looked over to her, because she sounded like she was going to burst into tears as she said that. I wasn’t sure what to think.

“Why not?”

“His mother called me today and told me that he’s very sick.”

It occurred to me that Jacob had not been in school. My first thought was that it must be a cough, nothing to worry about. His mother had probably mentioned it in passing when they had spoken on the phone earlier that day. Looking back some years later, I realized that my mother never knew Jacob’s, at least not as more than mere acquaintances and certainly not enough to warrant a phone conversation. I tried to figure out how she could have possibly known that he wasn’t in class. It had to have been by some coincidence, and nothing else.

She drove by their house and saw him through their living room window.

He called for me to come and play, forgetting that I was in school.

A lucky guess.

“He wasn’t in class today,” I replied. “Does he have a cough? Or is it worse...like a tummy ache?”

“Oh, honey,” she said, bringing tears to her eyes - a trademark, no doubt something she picked up from hours of soap operas and Hallmark specials. “I’m afraid it’s worse than that. He’s in the hospital. It’s very serious.”

* * *

My father stood up as I walked toward the door. I knew he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. He was afraid of his own children. It wasn’t a physical fear, though he had never physically disciplined me or Betsy. It was a fear of sounding stupid. He was clearing his throat, shuffling his feet and swaying his arms. I knew he was afraid I would bite his head off if he spoke to me.

“Hey Richie. . . nice service, wasn’t it?” he said as if we had just stumbled into the funeral of a stranger and sat in the back to watch--like we were college buddies who were out looking for a good time and thought it would be good for a laugh. I only stared at his white and pink ankles just above the heel of his topsiders exposed by his hiked up khakis.

“Dressed like you live in Hawaii, yet you’re the whitest man on Earth,” I thought.

I looked up and met his eyes. He had a very confused look on his face, eyebrows raised, mouth partially open, and I realized I had made that statement out loud.

“Sorry,” I said. “I just think that maybe you should’ve dressed a little more appropriately, for Mom’s... you understand, right?”

“I just thought since she was wearing her sun dress, it would be appropriate.”

“I suppose. You’re both wearing what you’ve worn just about every day of your lives. It wouldn’t make sense to stop now.”

“I brought a suit, though,” he said. “It’s in the car, I could change for the reception if you want -”

“Dad, you’re fine. It’s just going to be Grandma, Aunt Camille, and maybe two or three other people who don’t care what you’re wearing.”

“Right,” he said.

He stared down at the aisle carpet, blue and gold paisleys on a deep red background. I leaned over to try and enter his line of sight, but he quickly shot his gaze up and over my shoulder, as if something important or interesting caught his attention. I looked in the same direction, only to see a stained glass window depicting Saint Matthew.

“It’s time to take the casket out to the hearse,” I said

He turned his gaze to my eyebrows.

“I’ll get Betsy.” I turned and left him still fixed on the spot where my eyebrows had been.

I walked outside and down the short staircase to the driveway that circled around a pattern of yellow, blue, red and white flowers. I could tell from where I stood that you would see a bullseye flying over them in a plane. Betsy sat on the curb of the center piece facing the front of the church.

“We have to take the casket,” I said.

She put her head in her lap and hid behind her arms. She was taking this a lot harder than I thought she would.

“You really still want to know why?” I asked. “Do you honestly think she would have been willing or even able to tell you?”

Betsy remained where she was. I crossed the driveway to her and sat down. From this distance I could hear her heaving, jerky breaths. She was in that post-uncontrollable-sob where you breath with a constant hiccup and your nose pours snot. I put my arm around her.

“Do you really think she was a bad person?” I asked.

“You must be joking,” Betsy said lifting her head slightly and shooting me a blood shot glance. “She was horrible! It is inconceivable that someone could do the things she did to us and still be considered a good person.”

I sat silently, watching a lone ant scurry aimlessly on the pavement. I couldn’t have agreed with her more.

* * *

There were many people, lots of stories to tell. Despite their numbers, only a few truly got to me. The first ones, of course, but once I caught on to her, recognized her style, could judge her performances against others from the past, they became incidental. They didn’t matter, especially after going through so many crying nights and panic attacks in the beginning. There was, however, one that came later that I did believe. Even looking back now, I know why I did - I had to believe her. To not would have been inhuman. It would have meant the end of me.

At ten years old, I was confident that I was going to be my parent’s only child. My grandparent’s only. Betsy came as a surprise to all of us, especially my parents--a product of failed contraception. I reacted as any spoiled only child would; I wanted to get rid of the new baby.

In my heart of hearts, I didn’t really want to hurt her. I wanted to make sure that she had a good home. I paid an older boy with a deep voice to call in an ad for adoption in the newspaper. We had desperate couples who had tried everything to conceive, single women who felt they didn’t have the physical attributes to marry let alone get lucky, and pairs of men who lacked the desire for natural conception showing up on our doorstep for weeks. Not to mention the social worker who came with a court order to have Betsy taken away because my parents had not gone through the “proper channels” to have her put up for adoption. My mother quickly figured out who the guilty party was and sat me down in the rocking chair that rested in the corner of Betsy’s room. She knelt down in front of me. I turned my head, but my eyes could not escape hers.

“How could you do such a thing Richard? How could you?”

“I don’t know...” I mumbled.

She looked at me, trying to build up tears. I knew she what she was going to say. She didn’t try to reason with me anymore - she’d been cutting right to it recently.

“I didn’t want to tell you this, but your baby sister is very sick,” she whimpered, those same conjured tears filling her eyes.

I rolled mine, pushed her away, and escaped from the chair.

“You always say that.”

“Richard....Honey....You don’t understand....” she said as she collapsed into her lap, crying uncontrollably.

This was a performance I had not seen before. My experience shouted in my head telling me not to fall for it. I turned and looked at her crying on the floor. I could feel my throat get tight, and I tried to hold back the tears, but her lie swelled inside cracking what I knew to be the truth. It finally broke free and I ran over, throwing myself on her back, trying to wrap my short arms around her.

“Is she going to be okay?” I asked.

“We’ll see honey.... We’ll see.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“The doctors don’t know. But they’re trying real hard to make sure she’ll be okay.” We were both sobbing harder than ever before. This had to be real. It had to be this time. I apologized over and over again, saying I would take it all back if I could.

After a few days of moping around she broke the wonderful news to me. The doctors said that Betsy was going to live. I ran into Mom’s arms, and as soon as she wrapped them around me I knew she had done it again. It was the same hug, a very distinct hug. Her right arm under my left, her left over my right, a tight embrace, swaying me back in forth in it and a straining “MmmmmmmmMM,” issuing forth followed by a long sigh. I didn’t get mad, though I probably should have slapped her across her face. Instead, I decided that I had to protect my sister from it, and I pledged I’d never fall for it again.

* * *

I pushed open the front door to the chapel and held it for Betsy as she entered. I followed behind her, and tapped Dad on the shoulder as I passed him down the aisle, and his head snapped up.

I took one last look at her face. I wanted to be sad. I wanted the thought of never looking at her face again to effect me profoundly. I can’t say if it did or didn’t. As soon as the numbness began to subside, and some semblance crept back into my chest, I slammed the coffin lid shut, allowing the numbness to quickly return.

We lifted the coffin, which felt like it was at least twice my mother’s weight, and carried it out to the hearse; Aunt Camille’s 1986 Oldsmobile station wagon. Mom didn’t want us wasting money on a hearse when her sister had a car that was completely capable of transporting her body a few hundred yards to the grave site.

I followed behind Camille, alone, in my car while Charles drove Betsy and my father in the Lincoln. I had never been that interested in paying someone to drive for me. My father, on the other hand, hadn’t driven in twenty years and I don’t think Betsy ever had.

We arrived at the site, and carried the coffin over, placing it on five green belts that would soon lower the coffin to its final resting place. Seven of us stood around the coffin, looking at each other searching for what to do next. Camille cleared her throat and spoke up.

“Well, I suppose I could start us by saying a few words. Alice.... was...... my sister.” This was followed by a long silence. I wasn’t sure if that was going to conclude her speech. Camille never had a way with words. She looked like a man: short hair, blue jeans, work boots, and a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and frayed at the shoulder, open, over a yellowing t-shirt.

“Even though things were rough....between us.... these last couple of years,” she continued. “I’m still sort of sorry to see her go.” This was agonizing. I had to interrupt to get it over with before Grandma, my dad’s mom, started in on the eulogy.

“I think we’re all sorry to see her go,” I said. I saw Grandma start to open her mouth, but I cut her off.

“I think the best thing to do now is to wish her the best in... the afterlife... or wherever, and go eat some cake and ice cream back at the house.” I scanned the six faces and saw what I could only assume to be silent approval. I whistled to the workman to come over and lower the coffin into the grave. Once the straps were removed, we stood around the gaping hole and looked in. Betsy knelt down and picked up a handful of soft, fresh dirt. She tossed it in and walked away. Everyone else followed, but without contributing to the filling of the hole. I stayed behind, contemplating Betsy action, and decided to do the same. I scooped up as much dirt as I could hold in both my hands and threw it in. Suddenly I felt release. Weight lifted off of my head and I leaned over again, throwing more dirt on top. I got excited, and just kept shoveling as much dirt as I could into the hole.

“Hey buddy, you gonna fill the whole thing in? I got the bulldozer to do that,” said the workman. I stood, wiped the sweat from my upper lip and walked away.

* * *

I didn’t believe her when she tried to use Grandma. I can honestly say I didn’t believe her for a second. She hadn’t tried it for quite sometime when she told me that Grandma had a brain tumor. I laughed. I wasn’t trying to be malicious. The way she said it just sounded so funny to me. Mostly because she hadn’t tried that sort of thing in many years and her reason for trying it again was because I refused to come home from school for Thanksgiving.

“I’m nineteen years old Mom. I’m going to have Thanksgiving with Jenny’s family this year, and that’s that. Did you seriously think I would believe you?” I wanted her to admit that they had all been lies. Every last one of them. I wanted her to apologize. It occurred to me, however, that we had never actually spoken about this issue before, so I really didn’t know how she was going to respond.

“I don’t understand,” she said, “why wouldn’t you believe me?” This was beyond all comprehension.

“Mom, I know all about the little game you play. You tell me someone is sick and dying and then I’m supposed to get all sad. And after a few days or a week you tell me they’re going to be ok, and I’m supposed to be happy and relieved. But they were never sick in the first place! I just talked to Grandma a few days ago to tell her I wasn’t going to see her on Thanksgiving. She’s fine. I know, ok - I’ve known, I - just know.”

Click. That was the last time she ever told me a lie about someone and it was the last we ever spoke about it. I didn’t go home for Thanksgiving that year. Or Christmas. I called though. Betsy told me that everything was fine, but she wished I could have been there. I asked her about Mom, and she told me that Mom was ok. Then she asked me when I got out of the hospital, because she hadn’t heard from Mom that I was better. I sighed and calmly told her that I was fine and hadn’t been in the hospital. She understood.

* * *

I pulled up in front of the house and let myself in. Everyone was sitting on the couch in the living room, silent. I went straight to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. There was an assortment of bottles on the counter, but they were all empty. Jim Beam, Jack, The Captain, Grey Goose, Bacardi, nothing was left except for a single bottle of sour apple Pucker.

“Way to stock up for the reception Dad,” I shouted from the kitchen. “You could’ve at least bought new bottles.” No one said anything.

I poured myself a glass of Pucker and walked out to the living room. I stared at the drink while I walked. It was vividly green. The light coming through the large window made it glow like a neon bar sign. I looked up and noticed that everyone had their eyes on me.

“Did I do something?” This was very uncomfortable. I thought back to the burial.

“If it’s about the dirt, then, well....I can make no apologies.”

“Richard, what are you even talking about?” Betsy said.

I noticed that she was holding a video tape in her hands.

“Is that -”

“It’s from Mom. The family lawyer gave it to us.”

I looked over at Mr. Jennings who was standing in the corner of the room. He had a little grin on his face and gave a little wave with the tips of his fingers.

“Have you seen it?” I asked him.

“No, your mother gave me specific instructions for the viewing of the tape. Only you and Betsy are to see it and neither of you are to discuss it with anyone.”

I looked back at Betsy. She wasn’t crying anymore. She knew as much as I did what was on it.

* * *

I finished school in only three years and went straight to a cubical. I didn’t mind. I had always envied kids whose dad’s had normal jobs, and I told myself I would be normal one day too. And I finally felt like I was. I went to visit Mom, Dad and Betsy on the holidays and some weekends and things felt normal. Betsy even stopped coming to me for confirmation on what Mom was telling her, so I could only assume that it had stopped all together.

One beautiful Easter Sunday, Betsy and I were sitting on the verandah, enjoying the warm weather, some honey-glazed ham and each others’ company. The last couple years had been good for both of us.

“How’s school?” I asked. She rolled her eyes.

“No one understands me.”

I laughed but quickly covered my mouth because it was full of food. Typical high school response.

“Why do you say that? You have friends, right? Mom’s been telling me all about the boys that’ve been calling. They must understand you.”

Betsy looked shyly at the ground and a little smile cracked the corner of her mouth.

“She wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“Well she did. What’s the big deal anyway? At least you have the opposite sex knocking on your door. I haven’t had a date in years.”

She laughed at that but also covered her mouth to keep food from flying out.

“You have me,” she said with a big smile on her face.

“That is true. We have each other.”

She turned her head and looked out over the lawn. I kept my eyes on her. She was contemplating a big question. I wondered what it could be. Maybe help with school work. Maybe advice about guys. But those seemed too small for the time she was taking to think about what she was going to ask. This was bigger.

“Richard, can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” I said.

“No - shut up,” she said smiling, “Seriously though, this is important.”

“Of course, ask me anything you want.”

She sat still for a minute, holding her breath.

“Why do you think Mom told us those things? Oh - nevermind. Dumb question, sorry.”

I wanted to answer her. I really did. I just didn’t know how. I hadn’t thought about that subject in quite some time. I sat staring at my plate of ham, scalloped potatoes and green beans. I didn’t blink.

“You don’t have to answer,” Betsy said. “It was a dumb question. We can talk about something else.”

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s just that I haven’t thought about that in a while. I almost forgot
that it happened, it’s been so long, you know? I guess the only thing I can say is that she thought she was helping us.”

“What do you mean, helping us?”

That was clearly not the answer she was looking for. And it honestly wasn’t what I had expected to say. I was going to say, Because she was a horrible, selfish person, but now I think she knows it was wrong because she doesn’t do it anymore. That is what Betsy wanted to hear. It’s what I wanted to hear. But I felt that it wasn’t the truth. I could’ve switched it to that. I could’ve said, Just kidding. But I didn't. I knew that I really wasn’t kidding.

“Maybe she wanted to bring us all closer together, but she didn’t know how. I know when she told me you were sick, I was really scared. I just wanted her to hold me and tell me you were going to be okay. I believed her. And when she did tell me you were okay, I never felt so happy in my entire life. I ran into her arms and squeezed her so tight, I was so happy. Of course the hug is what gave it away.” Betsy nodded her head in agreement.

“It also changed what I thought about you. When she first told me, I was sorry about what I had done, and I wanted to take it back. I told myself that if you got better, I would do my best to take care of you. Then when I realized it was one of Mom’s, you know, I knew that I had to protect you from her.”

“I understand,” she said, smiling at me. I don’t think she did though. She didn’t look content with what I told her. It wasn’t enough.

I stood and stacked our plates and silverware to bring back inside. Betsy grabbed my arm as I walked by her towards the door.

“Richard. Thanks for looking out for me.”

* * *

Dad had put a T.V. in almost every room in the house so that no matter where he went or
what he was doing he could be watching his favorite shows or the game or the news or whatever. We went into the third sitting room in the east wing of the house. It had the smallest T.V. I didn’t want Mom to be bigger than me.

I turned it on and popped the tape in the VCR.

“You ready?” I asked. Betsy nodded her head. I hit the play button and took a seat next
to her on the couch.

Mom appeared on the screen in her sun dress and straw hat.

“Is it on?” she said to the person behind the camera. “Yes? Okay. Richard and Betsy. Look at you two. My babies. I’ve been so proud of you. Both of you. And I’ve been so happy to see you happy. I’m sure you know what this is all about, so I’m going to get right to it.”

I jumped up and hit the pause button.

“I can’t,” I said, “I don’t want to hear what she thought it was. I’m satisfied with what I think, and I know she’ll ruin that for me.” Betsy stood up and gave me a hug.

“Okay. But I have to know. I promise I won’t tell you what she said.”

I walked back out to the living room.

* * *

Two days before the Fourth of July, Mom called me at work. I was actually happy to hear from her because I had just been promoted to a middle management position in the company. I was getting a raise, a bonus, and a company car.

“That’s sounds nice Richie. I called though to tell you something. Important. I... I’m dying Richie.” Time stopped. My throat closed and my neck grew stiff. I couldn’t breathe. I was so angry.

“Why are you doing this?” I said softly. My hands tightened. Tears and snot started to
come out of my face.

“Richie, I -”

“I thought we were done. I thought you...were done. Why?”

“Richard,” she said sternly, “now listen to me. I know that certain things took place in the past. Things that would lead you to assume that I am not telling you the truth. But goddamnit.... I am telling you the truth.” I heard the phone hit the floor.

“Richard.” My dad had picked up the phone.

“Is it true?” I said.

“Why would anyone lie about such a thing? Honestly Richard, I’m surprised. You’ve made her very upset....Anyway, she has a malignant tumor in her liver. The doctors don’t know how it got there, or how they’ve missed it for so long. But it’s there.”

“How long?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How long does she have?”

“Oh...uh.... Well they can’t say for sure. At the very least she has less than a month. But she could live for many more years, ya know?” Dad said chuckling.

“Keep me posted,” I said and hung up.

* * *

No one said anything at first. The only noise heard was the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. I sat down on the arm of the couch, between Camille and Dad, picked up an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table and took a big bite. I chewed loudly, smacking the peel and flesh in my mouth, sucking all the juice out first and then swallowing. Everyone had their eyes on me again.

“Where’s Betsy?” asked Dad. I looked at him and continued to chew. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She’s watching the video.”

“Why aren’t you watching it?”

“Didn’t want to.”

“Well...why not? You know I think you’re mother -”

“Dad please. I just didn’t want to watch it, that’s all. I know what it’s about. I don’t
need to hear it from her mouth to know what it’s about.” He paused, deciding whether or not he should ask me.

“Well...what is it about?”

“Don’t answer that,” said Mr. Jennings. “Her will clearly states that you are not to talk about it to anyone.”

“It’s just about history Dad, that’s all. She rewrote history.” I looked over at Mr. Jennings, who thought for a moment but then leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.

“She rewrote....I don’t understand,” said Dad.

Betsy appeared in the doorway, and signaled for me to follow her back to the sitting room.

“Richie, I want to know what you meant by that,” he said. I turned back to him.

“Someday Dad.”

I entered the room. The T.V. screen was black and I could see Betsy’s reflection in it. She was sitting on the couch. I sat next to her again. She took my hand and interlocked her fingers in mine.

“So what did you -”

“Shhhhh.” Her hand was warm. She reached her other arm around me and squeezed as hard as she could.

“I understand now,” she said and smiled. I knew exactly what she meant.