SOUNDTRACK OF FICTIONAL MEMORIES
Teresa M. Perez
B.A., California State University, Sacramento, 2002
PROJECT
Submitted in partial satisfaction of
the requirements for the degree of
MASTER OF ARTS
in
ENGLISH
(Creative Writing)
at
CALIFORNIA STATE UNIVERSITY, SACRAMENTO
FALL
2011
SOUNDTRACK OF FICTIONAL MEMORIES
A Project
By
Teresa M. Perez
Approved by:
__________________________________, Committee Chair
Doug Rice, Ph. D.
__________________________________, Second Reader
Joshua McKinney, Ph. D.
____________________________
Date
ii
Student: Teresa M. Perez
I certify that this student has met the requirements for format contained in the University
format manual, and that this project is suitable for shelving in the Library and credit is to
be awarded for the project.
__________________________, Graduate Coordinator
David Toise, Ph. D.
Department of English
iii
__________________
Date
Abstract
of
SOUNDTRACK OF FICTIONAL MEMORIES
by
Teresa M. Perez
This project explores the human creation of behavioral patterns, patterns that do not serve
an individual’s best interest. The formation of these patterns is not a factor of age, gender
or sexual preference. The characters in the following stories come to realize their
unconsciously created patterns and they struggle to unravel them. Like a soundtrack to a
movie, each story begins with a song, a trigger, to recall memory and a new way of
seeing.
, Committee Chair
Doug Rice, Ph. D.
______________________
Date
iv
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page
Dedication .......................................................................................................................... vi
Chapter
1. INTRODUCTION ......................................................................................................... 1
2. EARTH BOUND GHOSTS .......................................................................................... 2
3. PAN DULCE ............................................................................................................... 18
4. WHAT DO YOU SEE ................................................................................................. 22
5. LIKE FATHER LIKE SON ......................................................................................... 24
6. SWEETEST DECLINE ............................................................................................... 31
7. NICE GOING .............................................................................................................. 35
8. CRACK IN THE FOUNDATION............................................................................... 40
v
DEDICATION
In deep gratitude to all those who have supported me on this journey.
To the revealing of secrets and patterns.
To the rebuilding of my being.
To the letting go.
“Most events are inexpressible, taking place in a realm which no word has ever
entered…” Letters To A Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke
vi
1
Chapter 1
INTRODUCTION
As I grow, parts of myself turn into fictions, characterizations of a face in the mirror
peering through skin to find truth. I have given myself different names, different color
hair, but in each experience similar patterns are created and repeated. Perpetual habits
destroying relationships and connections with my surroundings until I discover a trigger,
shocking my vision, pulling me from the mirror. As I look back at snap-shot memories to
moments held clear by melodies like soundtracks to a movie, I see the patterns. I try to
change them, I run from them, but continue creating them. It is only when I stop that my
patterns are revealed. Only then can I begin to dive into myself, take apart links in the
pattern to unravel.
2
Chapter 2
EARTH BOUND GHOSTS
From a place of solitude.
Before music.
The womb.
Diagetic sounds.
A beating heart.
Then
On the middle shelf of our bookcase lived a cloth bound book. The navy blue
stood out next to the less attractive books of poems and stories. This book, with its bible
thin pages, held the secrets of a woman’s body, displaying pictures of women in different
stages of life. From birth to old age. When I asked about babies or sex, my mother
would pull the navy blue book off the shelf and we would sit on the couch, looking at its
pictures. My age determined the depth of the conversation, but my mother never
mentioned the Stork. The information in this mystical book was scientific and factual,
leaving out ideas about fate and love. Had there been a chapter on fate, it would have
begun with something like this:
“When a fetus is curled peacefully in its mother’s womb, it does not know or even
think about fate. A mother and father, like artists, mate to create, and so assume
responsibility. The fetus, once unknowing, will be shot like a canon from its incubation
into its fate.”
3
Stage 1: The first three years of life
Kneeling on the couch with arms draped over the back, facing the window, I
waited, eager for my biological father to drive up in his brown 70’s wood panel van.
Waiting. Later while waiting at bus stops or while waiting for friends, this same anxiety
that bound me to the couch would find its way through me. Butterflies. He used to catch
butterflies in his hands, their fragile wings fanning as I took a closer look. I read
somewhere that the wings of a butterfly are laced with a special kind of dust to help
protect their delicate flutter. When their wings are touched, they die. From this window
where I waited, the Bay Bridge appeared tiny, like a model built for hobby. Some days
this father did not appear. This day, though, this day would be the last. I screamed and
gripped my hands to the back of the couch as my mother pulled me away. Fearing if I
left, he would come and I wouldn’t be there.
Nonie was diagnosed with cancer of the liver. A short, feisty woman. When I
stubbed my toe she would kick the stair and say, “Be nice to my Tessie.” We used to
watch Scooby Doo and Wheel of Fortune, the starting point for my love of words. My
favorite place to lie down was on the brown coffee table. The shiny laminate of the wood
felt cool on my skin. My cheek and palms pressed against its body, watching letters flip
as they were called out. Fibers of green carpet under the coffee table varied in length
from Nonie cutting out hardened Play-Doo. She didn’t drive. We walked or took the
4
bus. We would stop by the 5 and Dime for a puzzle or a coloring book and sometimes
we would stop by O’Connor’s, the neighborhood bar. A place all the old Catholics
would get together to drink the blood of Christ and gossip. I sat on a bar stool eating
Maraschino Cherries and sucking the Pimento’s out of Green Olives.
Nonie said that if she couldn’t live life breathing on her own, there was no point.
Alone, late at night, I heard her calling my name. I was sleeping in the living room with
the others who were visiting. Her voice was faint, a cross between a dream and a
whisper. Like a good girl, I walked into her room. She needed help to the bathroom. I
could barely see over the bedside bars. My tiny hands pulled up on a bar and lowered it
down. Nonie was wearing a muumuu, white with big flowers. I shoved my right arm
under her back and she wrapped her arm around my shoulders. Together, we pushed and
pulled to find balance, but she slipped from my feeble grip and landed on the floor,
hitting the back of her head on the nightstand. She moaned in pain. I stood there, not
knowing what to do. The good intentions of a little girl gone bad. Others came running
into the room, people I didn’t recognize and I quietly slipped out. Without the machine,
her body began shutting down, but she still knew to call my name. Sometimes I think I
still hear her.
At her funeral I saw a teddy bear in her casket and I remember her wearing a
green polyester suit, but my mother claims it was blue.
5
Soon after her funeral, my grandparents came, banging on the door. My alcoholic
grandmother yelling with my grandfather standing beside her, mute. She was irate to find
Nonie, her own mother, left her only a penny and gave my mom and me most of her
money. I remember my mom telling me to hide my favorite blanket, red with white yarn
knots, and the tan sheets with koala bears on them. I found out later my grandmother was
trying to take everything that she had given my mom and me, to make up for the penny.
She deserved that penny.
Every night I prayed. I prayed Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Promised to be
good. Just bring them back. I fell asleep with my First Holy Communion Bible with the
little girl on the front cover; her hands clasped, praying. He never answered. One day I
stopped asking.
My young self fixated on these moments. What I lost. What I mourned. What I
am missing.
I.
I.
I.
A mother is a daughter, a granddaughter, a lover. A mother, too, is lost in these
moments.
6
Stage 2: Mother
My mother trained me to be resourceful. Elementary school supplies easily turn
into weapons. Pencils, rulers, books, backpacks; all function at a higher level for
survival. She drilled me on the anatomy of inflicting pain. Men and women have soft
spots. Those are the spots to go for first; just enough time for them to let go so you can
run. Be aware of your surroundings. Listen. Pay attention.
We had a secret code for opening the door, if you didn’t know it, I wouldn’t let
you in. All you had to say was: “The cow jumped over the moon.” Cathy, my mother’s
best friend, came to pick up her kids. We were home alone. She didn’t know the code,
so we sat in the window watching her as she yelled from the street, “Tessie, it’s ok. Just
open the door.”
We also had role-playing exercises. Each exercise ending in the same outcome; I
was too young to understand the concept of “role-playing.”
“Mom?”
“Mommy?”
I would always find her lying down on the couch, motionless, one arm hanging off.
“Mommy?”
“Mommie!” Her body rocked on the couch as I tried to shake her, unable to control my
tears and panic. Her eyes would open and she would say, “If something was really wrong
7
with me, would you just stand there and cry? You have to call 9-1-1.” A sense of relief
would wash over me when she woke from her fake death. I did not lose her, not this
time.
When safety and support disappear, the body clings to what is left. Teaching and
protecting. She tells me she worked three jobs, but her presence was never missed. No
T.V., but books. Books at the library were free and they were all mine. Stacks upon
stacks of that old, musty smell as I flipped through their delicate pages. Golden Gate
Park was our backyard: Ocean Beach, our swimming pool: the zoo, our jungle. Nothing
else mattered as long as she was there.
My mother, child when she had a child, loved me with every living cell in her
body, made it difficult for me to detach myself from her. We were a unit, a pair. I felt
her pain, read the words written on her body, heard her voice in silence. Some time in
my life I accepted the role of the pleaser, obeying to avoid conflict.
Stage 3: (Step) - Father replacement
One of the first memorable impressions of my new father figure happened in a
garage in San Francisco on Dartmouth Street. The Metallic blue Ford Bronco was parked
behind me. I reached out to grab him, excited about something. I called out his name as
my hand touched his brown arm. He swung around, flinging my hand from his skin and
said, “Call me, Dad.”
8
Soon I was introduced to his “white glove inspections.” A white glove hovers in
my memory, detached from the body, pointing with accusation at my every movement.
A single finger finding dust in corners that were just dusted, a microscopic eye
magnifying plaque missed by a toothbrush, a B+ that should have been an A. By
themselves, these incidents seem small, insignificant in the larger picture of life, but
compiled over years, they mutated into a heavy mass. I was never hit or touched in
inappropriate ways; rather, I was controlled by an invisible, verbal force.
Tripping over orange and white Converse on the court I could hear him from the
sidelines, “Shake it off, kid.” Anger filled quiet spaces. I retreated. I was interrogated.
I was Untrusted. The dutiful daughter. No move, however carefully calculated, was the
right move. My voice became silent.
As a family, we didn’t talk about things. We were only told things. Any turmoil
or conflict was to “stay in the family.” My memory lacks all the pieces, displaced to
forget. The eyes of my childhood could see what was going on, but without experience,
my understanding was naive.
In high school, I slept with the door closed. I was convinced a shadow stood at
the end of my bed, watching over me, at night. In Fung shui, a bed should never be
positioned with feet towards an open door. By doing so, negative chi is invited into a
room. With the door closed, I blocked out the shadow and the arguments between my
parents. By the time their voices traveled through closed doors, all I could hear was
9
elevated, muffled sounds like the white noise of a TV. One night during one of their
arguments, they broke my fourth wall. I heard their bedroom door open, my mother
screaming. But it was not the scream of anger. She was afraid. Two sets of feet stomped
down the hall and the front door slammed shut. I lay there, staring into the dark,
listening. The engine of my dad’s beat-up truck started and peeled out of the driveway.
My feet found their way to the floor. I opened my door, stuck my head out, and heard
nothing. I walked down the hall, soundless, holding my breath. When I got to the living
room, my younger brother and sister were standing at the window, peeking from behind
the lace curtain. I stood behind them, their little hands grabbing onto mine, and saw my
mother, in her nightgown, standing in the middle of the yard, talking on the phone.
The glass window distorted the clarity of her words. 911. A description of the truck. A
bottle of pills. Her nightgown was white. With the porch light on, she glowed against
the night. Her body wouldn’t stop moving and we were frozen in the window.
The next day, life continued as if nothing ever happened.
The unpredictability of my dad’s personality kept me on edge. A constant fear
that my actions would cause him to want to kill himself. I don’t know if my brother and
sister felt the same. We have never talked about that night.
I lived in a world of his manipulation. It wasn’t until he broke the mind games
with a raised hand, that I looked him in the eyes. My trembling, little curly haired brother
hid behind my legs and my mother stood on the side trying to maintain semblance with
10
her husband and protect her children, simultaneously. He constantly picked on him for
crying, for being sensitive. I was standing in the door watching my little brother,
terrified, cowering under the negative energy of his own father. As he raised his hand, I
slid in between him and my brother. “If you ever raise your hand to him again, I will hit
you back.” We stood in front of each other, staring into each other’s eyes. I carried my
brother into his room, shut the door and held him. He cried, afraid of our father.
I was the little girl who ran around the front of the preschool saving snails from
lawnmower men by lifting my dress and putting them in a make shift pocket. Painting
the fabric with fresh mowed grass and snail glaze. I protected those that couldn’t protect
themselves, but left myself wandering in the forest.
My mother and I got into a taxi and left my biological father, who never had a
chance to physically hurt me, but I‘ve heard stories, like the time he hit my mom and
gave her a concussion. She wonders now if that is the reason she has Meniere’s Disease.
I wished, for many years, that she would own up to her word and get into a taxi once
again. Threats of leaving my stepfather were wasted breath. Like a clown, the smiles
were painted on and all was well again. But I watched as she stood at the stove, stirring
dinner in pots, pretending to listen.
Talking to herself,
imprisoned in her head,
wanting to puke her secrets on the table,
11
chopping chunks of regret with her blood stained knuckles.
The skin around her eyes,
burning, blistering,
inside a fungus overgrowing,
protruding green,
cracking her bones.
I would speak to her while she stood at the stove, but she didn’t hear me.
The painted faces unhinged my brain and heart. Shook loose the bolts that hold a
person together. My only escape was college, but I carried guilt for leaving my mother,
brother, and sister behind. I’ve never quite learned how to unpack that guilt.
I couldn’t begin to fix what was broken until I was ready and the moment of being
ready has taken years. I carried on with a taste at the tip of my tongue I couldn’t identify
and then one day, as they say, the light bulb turned on. A moment of nirvana and all that
had been shoved into my pores was revealed.
To be thirty and recalling the dead leaves ghosts to wander in my waking hours.
Lingering with some unfinished business. The light. Go into the light.
12
Stage 4: Self-Exploration
When I asked my mother what a blowjob was, she blushed, laughed nervously,
and asked, “What do you think it is?” At some point, the blue book disappeared and my
mother was left to her our devices. Standing in the bathroom one morning or night while
doing my hair my mother explained sex like this, “It’s just a quick pang and then it’s
over. That’s why you have to make sure you are ready. If you are going to have sex, you
have to be willing to handle the consequences.” Practicality and fear affected my
precious first times. Each time thinking, hoping I would feel more than a pang, at least a
pang. I didn’t understand intimacy. I didn’t understand the connection that needed to be
made, the connection that would allow me to be vulnerable. Instead, I chalked it up to
something that was wrong with me. I accepted my fate.
Instead, my most intimate moments happened in nature. In all that could and
would go wrong in life, my roads always led back to the green. On a day of rain,
California rain, the kind that is humid and warm, I lay under a canopy of three trees.
Their branches woven together to make an umbrella as I read and napped. I recall many
days like this, wanting to run away, but instead running to the park or to the mountains.
On grass knolls with headphones, I watched clouds take the shape of bunnies and dragons
and in that moment, the world was mine. The smell of the air, different with each season,
wrapped around me, connecting me to the earth like a root. There were no white gloves
chasing me. Just me and Mother Nature.
13
I never met my great-grandfather. My mother tells me he was a real outdoors
man. He would leave, sometimes for a week at a time, to go camping. Nonie didn’t
mind. It was what he liked to do. He is said to have been a funny man; the kind of man
who would tell a joke and never crack a smile. He was quiet and reserved, but full of
heart. When I think of him, I picture a Walt Whitman or Robert Frost kind of man; the
kind of man who is pulled into nature by passion. I like to think that my connection to
nature is drawn from him. Even though we have never met, I know that if he were here,
we would have enjoyed hours of silence sitting on a boat in a lake or camping. This
longing to constantly be with nature has to come from somewhere. He must be with me,
connected to me by death in my birth.
As a child, the backyard was my oasis. My imagination led me on wild
adventures. A young girl sitting in the dirt crisscrossing twigs at the edge where the
concrete meets the earth. I would take moist and meaty Redwood bark, a great substitute
for chicken and pretend to cook over an open fire. My chicken peels were laid gently
across twigs, sprinkled with crusted leaves, sundried to look like Oregano, and set to fire
with a little imagination and some kicked up dirt. Smoke rose like a forest fire and
temporarily satisfied my cravings. I would sit for hours with my back pushed up against
falling wood fences with my high top converse and the smell of grass against the San
Francisco fog.
14
No matter how hard my mom tried to make me a little lady, by the end of the day
my reveal pants had hole in the knees and were covered by grass stains. Always falling,
tripping over my own two feet, bruises, cuts and a lot of blood.
When I finally told my mother I was gay, she laughed and thought I was trying to
be funny. “No, really, Mom, I’m dating a girl.” My mother told my step-father and they
asked me not to tell my brother and sister. They were young. They wouldn’t understand.
My father questioned his faith. He was relieved when his priest told him that I wasn’t
going to hell. My mother cried for the grandchildren that she would never have. They
both went to counseling for a little while. And I quietly handled my confusion. I didn’t
want to bother them. My mother spoke to my best friend. He and I have known each
other since we were five years old, but he is not a keeper of secrets. After their
conversation, he called me, laughing, and said, “Your mom said ‘you just need a good
fuck’ and then you would like men.” I didn’t understand his laughter and I didn’t know if
he was telling the truth. He had a way of exaggerating, but I never asked my mother for
the truth. I wasn’t ever sure I wanted to know.
A few years later my parents gave me permission to tell my brother and sister.
My sister laughed and pointed at me, simply stating, “I knew it!” I loved her more in that
moment than I ever had. For the first time she had the ability to bring me comfort. Her
ways of accepting things, making it easy to be me. She said, “I’ll always be the screw up,
but you’ll be gay.” That was fine with me. My brother’s reaction was different. He
jumped off the couch in disgust, said nothing, and left. He had always been the dramatic
15
one in the family. A character from a soap opera. In all of this, no one ever stopped to
ask how I was doing.
Stage 5: All grown up
A phone call. When she speaks I notice her voice sounds different. She says,
“You can’t say anything to anyone.” If I listened to those words every time they have
been said, no one would know anything about me. A majority of my life can be prefaced
with “you can’t say anything to anyone.” She tells me she has packed his bags and is
waiting to drop them off to him. He is not coming back to the house. It’s final. There
will be a divorce. My mother cries wolf. The final bolt breaks loose. And yet, my
young self falls apart. The last straw has been blown down and I am fully exposed.
Proof that a daughter can do nothing to fix her parents. Getting good grades, feeling
guilty for not succumbing to their expectations, holding years of knowing the truth, but
never being able to tell it, all of that means nothing. I shaped myself to fit their needs and
the form became my whole. Biting my tongue, shame. I cried, but didn’t know what I
was crying for. Finally, she was leaving him, but I knew, deep down, it would be like all
the other times.
The crying confused me. I didn’t feel bad for the deterioration of my parent’s
relationship. I felt sorry for the individuals, but even that didn’t warrant the tears. In the
bottom drawer of the dresser, underneath Nonie’s old muumuu, I pulled out my favorite
blanket, red with white yarn knots. The material was falling apart, but it smelled the
16
same and carried the same healing power that comforted me in my younger years. I let
all that had built up inside release itself until my body no longer had the energy to do
anything else but lie there.
Stage 6: Death
For a while, I used to have a recurring dream. I would emerge from a black
nothingness into a white room. The space was small and empty. My footsteps made loud
echo’s as I walked, four walls surrounding me. As I reached the center of the room, I
would bump into a giant white egg. The camouflage of white on white made it difficult
to see the egg. For a moment, I try to find a way around it. I try climbing it, but my feet
slide down the shell. I try sliding past it, but I get stuck and have to come back. I give
up. When I turn around, a giant black bull emerges from the nothingness with red eyes
and flaring nostrils. It moves quickly, shaking walls as its hooves hit the floor. From
behind, a crowd of shadows runs toward me. I can only focus on the red eyes staring at
me. Voices and pounding footsteps ricochet off walls. They start to close in. I push my
back against the egg and as the bull and the crowd of shadows are about to rush me, I
wake up.
I spoke to a psychologist about this dream once. She said its meaning has to do
with a longing to go back to the womb.
17
My mother’s phone call was the trigger that helped me step out of myself, finally
seeing patterns I had been weaving, attaching ghosts to a little girl. We had always relied
on each other. Nothing else mattered as long as she was there, but I’m not a little girl
anymore. Every new beginning in life happens out of death, whether literal or
metaphorical. Every death results in a reincarnation of the self.
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Chapter 3
PAN DULCE
Song and Lyrics:
Me Gustas Tu
By: Manu Chao
“Que voy hacer?”
It’s too early. Unnatural to be up before the sun. Casey’s not a coffee person.
Doesn’t like conversation before a shower. She takes a long time shaping the curls on
her head and poking at her face. Not because she cares. Morning silence hypnotizes her,
traps her in the mirror. Some days she’s not sure it’s good to stand in front of a mirror.
She picks apart her body, detaching each limb until she resembles a marionette. Last
night Ricard, her waiter, was looking that face when he asked her, “Have you ever been
to Mexico.”
Ricard’s dark eyes still haunted her reflection. His eyes replace hers in the mirror.
The way his white cotton shirt hung as he leaned on the bar interrupting her glass of
homemade Sangria. Milk chocolate skin, tongue rolled R’s. Her hands on the bathroom
counter balance as she leans in. Morning light arrives. She checks the clock, takes note
that she will be late, again, and locks eyes with her reflection.
19
She calls in sick. The call is one of patience, skill, and practice. In a whisper she
narrates how horrible she feels, mentions something about stomach issues and promises
to be in tomorrow. If she hurries, she can catch a bus to the Mission, pick up lunch and
head to the beach. The odds of her running into someone from work in those areas are
slim. Casey never could remember street names; she navigates her way through her
memory of streets led by stories attached to different landmarks. Born near the ocean,
she always knows how to find her way to water. People step on and off the bus, listening
in on phone conversations, counting letters on signs. Casey witnesses these moments as
if she were recording a film with diegetic sound and the nuances of everyday life. Faces.
Faces in color speaking in languages understood only by their companions. Some have
dark skin, others light, some freckles, some scars. A child is shaking and holding
himself. His mother looks down and gently says, “Un momento, porfavor. Estamos casi
alli.” He begins to cry. His little body may betray him, but he is holding on as tight as he
can. Little feet marching in place. His mother is smiling, trying to contain her laughter.
Casey is smiling too. She thinks in some way it is cruel to smile while this poor child is
in pain, but she finds him adorable in all his innocence and imagines that is how his
mother feels. The bus slows to a stop and people begin standing up. To see the boy
Casey leans to the side of the people standing. He too is smiling and tugging on his
mother’s hand, overcome by relief.
The bus continues through barely remembered streets past a familiar playground
bright with primary color, moving closer towards Casey’s memories. The smell of bread
20
baking en la panaderia wafts through open windows. An image of a piglet pops up, made
of sweet maple with a hint of cinnamon; Casey as a young child pointing into a pastry
case desiring this sweet on every visit. Her unconscious, still envisioning this sweet
piglet, draws her arm to pull the exit wire. She is led by her nose to the panaderia,
hesitating before she pulls the handle. Stepping over the threshold, she transforms, a
child filled with excitement over the many tastes and smells. The pastry case seems
smaller, but it still holds the treasure. She gives each pastry respect admiring their
textures and flakes, never losing sight of her cerdito. The woman behind the case stares
at Casey. Afraid of her Spanish, Casey hesitates to speak and contemplates presenting
her request in English. Ricard’s face takes over her reflection in the glass case. “Que es
tu nombre?” “Mi nombre es Casey.” Yes, I know Casey isn’t a traditional Spanish
name. Ricard and Casey stare at each other, Casey filled with frustration over the way he
challenges her authenticity. She regrets not engaging in conversation with him, instead
only responding with a comment about everyone having a right to his or her own opinion
and berates herself for a bullshit answer. He intimidated her, made her feel inferior.
“Senora?” In a kind of whisper, like a child asking for something they may not receive.
“Quiero el cerdito, por favor.” The woman’s hand reaches into the case, swiping away
Ricard’s face, delicately lifting Casey’s treasure. She accepts her cerdito directly in both
hands, sniffing it before her first bite. The glaze on top cracked brown. She bits an ear
with her front teeth, sucking out flavor before chewing.
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Outside, crumbs fall to the ground. Casey takes small steps avoiding trashcans,
metal posts, lunging over cracks in the sidewalk. She stops in front of a mural painted on
the side of a building. Faces with high cheekbones, large eyes and dark hair smile at her.
She lifts a hand to her cheek like a child recognizing herself in a mirror. The women on
the wall adorn headdresses made of feathers and Aztec symbols; tropical plants and
ocean water waving in the background. She feels a longing for the ocean, a sense of
possibility, to feel unrestricted. She forgets lunch, forgets thirst and hunger. She feels an
urgency to run. She escapes by bus, swiftly leaving simultaneous comfort and
discomfort, gripping the rail forcing her body to defy gravity as the bus twists and turns.
Salt sticks to her skin like a hug from a lost friend. Casey sticks her feet in warm
sand letting ocean foam flirt before running up the beach, repeating this dance several
times before tiring. She makes her way up the side of a cliff sitting with her chin on her
knees. Here, she cannot see her face in the murky water. Here, she can only feel the
particles that form to sculpt her. Only hear the sounds of the waves crashing onto the
shore drowning out the voices.
22
Chapter 4
WHAT DO YOU SEE
Song and Lyrics:
Who Needs Shelter
By: Jason Mraz
“Who needs shelter from the sun
No, not me, not anyone”
Outside, a small table, two girls and a giant leaf. Mari spins its stem between her
fingers, a slight breeze brushes Sonia’s face.
“What do you see?”
“A leaf.”
“Look closer?”
Mari holds the leaf, flat in her palm. The two girls bow their heads. “Veins.” “But what
do the veins look like. What do you see?” Sonia stares deeper into Mari’s palm. She
feels embarrassed when Mari puts her on the spot. “Like triangles and over here, these
ones look like two eyes and a mouth.” “Ah, Yes!” Mari throws her hands up just as the
barista sets iced tea on the table. “You should come visit me in Monterey. I’ll show you
my art studio.” Sonia stirs her tea. Mari’s energy fills the space between them. “I can
23
come down on Fourth of July weekend. I have an extra day off.” Mari takes a sip.
“Perfect!” The two girls sit and talk. The sun sets behind them. Sonia listens and allows
Mari’s energy to wrap around her. It isn’t until mosquitoes appear that they become
aware of time. A breeze rides through Japanese Maples. Low grasses rattle. Mari picks
up the now brittle leaf from the table. “I still have to drive back to Monterey.” Sonia
looks up from the leaf. “And I have to work in the morning.” “In Monterey we will
pretend time does not exist.” Sonia glances at her watch before stepping up from her
chair.
24
Chapter 5
LIKE FATHER LIKE SON
Interlude:
What if a part of myself is male? The blue book diagrams were only normative pictures
of male and female. What if, just what if, what is on the outside does not always feel like
what is on the inside?
“You see, it was muddy and I was just tryin to change a flat tire,” Curtis was
telling the guys from the shop. They sat in a row, as if they were about to watch a movie;
beer in one hand, jerky in the other. He propped himself up against the porch railing, “so,
there I was bent over tryin to unscrew the bolts when my foot slipped. Now, I’m not
afraid to make a fool of myself, but those two ladies started laughin and they were real
pretty ladies and my face was all covered in mud. I wiped my eyes, blinkin till I could
see clear and there they were, laughin, in their high heels and skirts, all pretty and smellin
nice. And I said to them, ‘Whatcha laughin at?’ They stared, like I asked um some kinda
Einstein question or somethin. They were lucky my father weren’t the one helping them.
They would of stopped laughin right quick. So, I asked again, ‘Whatcha laughin at?’
The tall lady, the one with the long red hair comin round her shoulders, said, ‘Oh, don’t
take offense, hon. It’s just mud. You gave us a laugh, that’s all.’
His face tuned beet red and he clenched his fists. Curtis slammed his can down
on the railing, splashing beer over his fingers and onto the bushes below, hitting sunlight
on the way down. The guys leaned in toward Curtis. When he got fired up, they knew
25
the story was going to be good. “I said to them, I ain’t no clown.” There I was, tryin to
help these ladies out and they’re standin there, watchin me slip around, doin them a good
deed and all they could do was laugh. The weather was in one of those in between states
where it had yet to decide on the exact date summer would end and fall would begin.
Rain fell the past few days like a dam break turning the soft ground into mud pie. “I was
mad, real mad and I don’t even know why.” Tommy interrupted Curtis, “You didn’t
even know why you were mad?” “If it was you guys standin there, laughin, I’d a laughed
with ya, but somethin about the way their breasts jiggled under their blouses and the way
their hair flipped got under my skin.” The boys were laughing so hard they had trouble
staying in their seats.
Curtis was still wearing his jumpsuit, his sewn on nametag crusted with mud. His
baby face made him appear younger than his actual age. The guys adored him. Curtis
has been the only one of the group to leave town after graduating high school. The rest
of the guys stuck around and worked f or Curtis’ father. He went away to mechanics
school, traveled a bit and when his father got sick, he came around full circle to the town
he was born in. After his father passed, Curtis became the owner of ‘C. Jones Auto
Body’ and lived at home with his mother. Just about every night Curtis and the boys
would sit on the porch at the shop, telling stories.
“I was standin there watchin their pursed cherry lips. I don’t know what came
over me. I didn’t have control of my body. I raised my arm and the tire iron flew across
the road toward those pretty ladies. The red head screamed and ducked, arms wrapped
around her head and face. One of her high heels fell in the gutter. The other lady stood
26
there, eyes wide, and watched as it wooshed by her face, then she stumbled to dodge the
tire iron when it ricochetd off the building behind them. I froze. Just froze. I know I get
angry sometimes, but I never threw anything at anyone before, especially not a lady. If
my mama heard this, she would beat my behind. It wouldn’t matter that I was a grown
man.” Tommy scooted to the edge of his, cleared his throat and said, in a motherly tone,
“Oh, Curtis, you naughty boy. You come here so I can give you a whoopin. Where did I
go wrong in my raisin of you? That is not how you treat a lady.” Now the boys were
overcome with laughter, slapping their knees and holding their aching sides. Curtis took
a drink of his beer, waiting for the boys to settle down. “What happened next, Curtis?
Did they call the cops on ya?”
“Well, like I said, I froze. I stood there starin at them. They were pretty rattled,
like two birds chased by a cat. The red head bent down and picked up her high heel. She
put her arm on her friend to balance on one foot and slipped it back on. Then she
marched her pretty little self right over to me.” The boys made an “ooooooh” sound that
started at the back of their throats. “She marched right over and got in my face. She
didn’t say a thing, just stared at me. Her perfume smelled real good. The next thing I
knew, her hand slapped me right across the face. She had a mean ol’ slap like the ones
you see in movies and she started yellin at me. Lucky for me they got a flat in the alley
off Pine Road, so no one saw me standin there like a fool with a handprint on my cheek
gettin yelled at. I didn’t even hear half of what she was sayin. I was still tryin to figure
out how the tire iron got out of my hand. The thing I remember her sayin was, ‘now you
just finish putting that damn tire on so we can be on our way.’” Curtis shifted his body
27
on the railing and rubbed under his nose. The boys were serious now, hushing each other
to hear Curtis. Their beers empty, cans littered under chairs. On occasion someone
shifted feet, knocking a can over.
Sunset painted the sky pink and orange behind Curtis, the smell of dusk rising
from the damp soil. A few mosquitoes looking for dinner landed on hairy arms. “Does
anyone want another beer?” Curtis crushed the can in his hand stepping toward the door.
“Awe, Come on, Curtis. Finish tellin the story. We’ll go out for beers when you’re
done.” Curtis opened the door, calling behind him, “I’ll just be a sec. Let me get a beer.”
He walked past the fridge into the bathroom and quietly shut the door. In the mirror he
watched as his fingers slid over the cheek that was slapped. He could still feel the sting
from her soft, firm hand. He must have been in the bathroom longer than he realized.
Tommy came knocking at the door. “Hey, Curtis, I thought you were gettin a beer. You
alright in there?” Tommy and Curtis have known each other since the day they were
born. Their mothers were best friends and raised both boys together, like they were
brothers. “Curtis, are you in there?” Curtis shook from his trance, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be
right out.” Tommy turned to walk back but decided to stay and leaned up against the
wall to wait. Curtis turned the faucet on and splashed his face with water. “Tommy, I
know you’re standin out there. I said I’d be right out.” Tommy picked at his nails. “I
heard ya.” When the doorknob turned, Tommy pushed up off the wall to face Curtis.
“Hey, man, you been in there awhile. Everything alright?” “I said I was fine. Can’t a
man take a piss in peace?” Curtis kept walking, leaving Tommy behind, opened the
fridge to grab a beer and assumed his position against the railing outside.
28
By now the sun was almost replaced by the moon and the boys were antsy. They
wanted the rest of the story before their stomachs growled any louder. “Curtis, come on,
man. Finish the story so we can go get some food.” There was a grumbled consensus.
“Alright, alright. Now where was I?” “That red head was tellin ya what to do.” “Okay,
right, so she just got done telling me to put the tire on and I was still in shock. I couldn’t
move, but when she spoke in that tone I snapped out of it. I blinked, and then, without
even thinking, I said, “Lady, I’ve been real nice to you, stopping here to help when I
didn’t have to and you’re just bein rude.” “Well, that was the straw that broke the
camel’s back. I thought she yelled loud the first time, but now she was real angry. She
got so close to face I could feel her warm breath. ‘I’m rude! I’m rude! You just threw a
tire iron at me and I’m rude. What is your problem? I didn’t ask you to help. You
offered. Now you change the tire or not. I don’t care. But quit wasting my time. If
you’re not going to do it, I’ll find someone else.’” At this, Curtis snickers. Tommy was
standing in the doorframe of the shop, watching him, noticing how he kept rubbing under
his nose. He knew Curtis well enough to know when he was lying. One of the boys
egged Curtis on, “Did she slap ya again?” They all broke out into laughter. “I thought
she might, but just waited, like she expected me to giver her an answer. She was so close,
all I could focus on were those cherry red lips, so after a tick, I leaned in and I kissed
her.” Now the boys went crazy. “No you didn’t.” “You liar, Curtis.” “You are barely
able to talk to woman let alone kiss one.” The boys jeered, but Tommy remained silent.
Curtis laughed along with the rest, unaware of Tommy.
29
“Alright, you hyenas, let’s all head down to Mo’s for some grub. I’ll lock up and
meet you all down there.” The boys got up, still laughing at Curtis, arguing about who
was going to drive. Curtis picked up cans as he straightened chairs. Tommy, still in the
doorway, coughed. “Tommy, what are ya still doin here? Why don’t ya head over with
them? I’ll catch up with ya in a minute.” “Naw, I’ll wait for you to finish.” Tommy
watched Curtis moving about the porch. “Suit yourself.” Curtis brushed past Tommy to
close up the windows and set the alarm. “What really happened?” Curtis had his back to
Tommy, pulling the shades down. He stopped for a second, and then pulled down
slower, stalling. “Nothin, man. Nothin happened. Just some dumb rude ladies laughin at
my expense.” Tommy walked over to Curtis, cornering him behind the service counter.
“Curtis, you didn’t do anything, did you?” He held the cord in his hand after the shades
were drawn, playing with the tassel at the end. Tommy waited. “What does it matter? I
don’t even know why I told the story. You want to know what happened? I was standin
there and the red head was in my face. She slapped me and was yellin at me and you
want to know what I did? Nothin! I did nothin.” Curtis turned around and looked
Tommy in the eyes. “I had half the mind to walk off and leave the car up on the jack, but
I couldn’t move and then it was too late. After I retrieved my tire iron, I fell to my knees
and put the spare tire on. The red head didn’t say word before getting in the car and the
other lady was still snifflin. The two ladies just got in their car and drove off. Left me
standin there in the alley, covered in mud.” Tommy listened as Curtis spoke, still
keeping him cornered. “Tommy?” “What is it?” “Do you think I’m like my father?”
He kicked his foot at a box and threw his self down in a chair. It rolled a few inches.
30
“Don’t talk crazy. You’re not like him.” Tommy moved closer to Curtis, closing in on
the distance between the two. “But I was too angry. I threw that tire iron, Tommy. I
threw it and I meant to hit one of them. I don’t know what came over me.” A moth
fluttered around the porch light, caught sight of the halogens in the shop and fluttered to
the ceiling. Curtis watched as it dove away and then back up, wanting to land, but unable
to stand the heat. “I don’t want to be like him. I can’t be him.”
“You’re thinkin too much about. You’re not like your father. You made a
mistake, but you know it was a mistake.” Curtis’ shoulders and head slumped. He
picked at the crusted mud on his nametag freeing the “r” and “s” from what had dried.
“Let’s go meet up with the guys. It’ll get your mind off things.” Tommy backed away
toward the door hoping Curtis would follow. “Naw, I don’t feel much like hangin out
tonight. You go. I’m gonna stick around here for awhile.” Tommy hesitated at the door.
He was about to say something about Curtis’ father, but stopped. “I’ll see you tomorrow
then.” “Don’t forget to pick up Ms. Marshall’s car on the way in. She needs an oil
change.” “Right. See you in the morning.” Tommy left without closing the doors and
more moths were attracting to the halogen lights above Curtis’ head. He looked up and
the wheels on his chair rolled. With his head leaned back, he began to spin in the chair.
As a child, he would spin until he felt sick, then stand and stumble through the shop until
he either found his way outside or ran into his father, at which point he would be in
serious trouble. When he got a bit older, he did it just to spite his father, to prove he was
his own man.
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Chapter 6
SWEETEST DECLINE
Song and Lyrics:
Bamboo Banga
By: MIA
The beat is too loud for words.
In the beginning, no words, only sound. Sound in the form of drumbeats. Beats
resonate in from the earth. Primal beats grow in from bone. Rib cages rattle, chests pop,
feet stomp.
Underground, below buildings, those dark, damp places beneath streets.
Down beat.
Flesh on flesh. Hair whipping through the air.
Fear holds her, smothers her with love, keeps her from growing her own beat.
She feels the rhythm beneath her feet. The vibrations slither up her legs and hovers at her
waist before shooting upward.
Glasses clang, clear with bright red cherries and bubbles. Strobe light like
artificial moonbeams, flicker on faces in the crowd. She clenches the railing, watching
32
hips sway in rhythm. “Are you going to hold onto that railing all night or are you going
to dance?”
Casey turned toward the shouting voice and came face to face with Dina. Dina
and her soft brown eyes. Casey’s cheeks redden, “I like to watch.” She hated how her
heart sped whenever Dina came within inches. Beating, tying her tongue, droplets of
sweat trickling down her spine. “Who are you with?” “Friends,” Casey lied. She heard
Dina was in town and was hoping to run into her. “You look good, Casey. How have
you been?” She didn’t mean it. She never asked questions she wanted the answers to.
“Good. The usual, working and stuff. What about you?” The music seemed to get
louder. Casey still clenched the railing with one hand. “You want a drink?” Casey knew
she should say no. “A shot of tequila?” They sat at the bar, salt and lime dripping from
their hands, vibrations under their bar stools, tingling their toes. Many nights began with
shots and ended with Casey lying naked underneath Dina. Casey’s loss of control always
started with alcohol in dark places. Her primal instincts kicked in. In such moments she
tended to listen to her body, not her head. Dina was afraid to be with Casey in the light.
She made up stories about how it wasn’t safe in the light. She was good at making up
stories. She longed for Casey in a way that defied her. She could love her, did love her,
but was scared to let go.
The lightness of the Tequila ran through Casey. The beat dizzied her. Dina
scooted in closer. She wanted what she could no longer have and tonight she felt Casey
putting up a fight. She was distant, her body held tight. Casey licked salt from her hip,
pressing the crystal up against the back of her front teeth before it dissolved. Dina
33
watched. Casey kept repeating, “I don’t want your puppy dog love,” in her mind like an
annoying song accidentally heard while flipping through stations. Something Dina said
to her once. “We should get out of here,” Dina said with smile. “And do what?” Casey
craved her, saw through her, but still wanted. “We could go back to your place.” That’s
why Casey was here. She put herself here on purpose, to see her, to smell her, to taste
her again. She stayed away until tonight. “To my place? You just pass through town
and think you can lure me in after a few shots?” Dina stares at her shot glass, fingering
the rim. Casey had never raised her voice or disagreed with anything Dina said. “I just
thought we could hang out and talk. You know.” Casey laughed. “We talked? I don’t
remember talking. I remember drinking and following you, like a lost dog, for a treat, but
I don’t remember talking.” Casey slid from the bar stool to her feet, stumbling into a
guy, making him spill his beer. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry,” she said with her hand on his
shoulder. He shrugged, mumbling and continued walking past the bar, forcing Casey to
balance on her own. Dina searches Casey’s face for a sign of the innocent girl; the girl,
willing and open to every touch. Casey used to be hers.
Casey tried to rest her hand on the back of Dina’s bar stool, but it slipped and
landed on Dina’s thigh. Dina looked down. Casey stared at Dina until she lifted her head
and their eyes locked. “This was really nice and all.” Casey stumbled toward the stairs
bumping people as she passed them. Dina waived down the bartender, paid the tab and
hurried to the railing. She watched as Casey paused when she reached the last step,
surveying a mesh of genderless bodies and slid through an opening in the crowd,
disappearing into a rhythm of her own.
34
Beats are forgotten over time.
But they do not disappear.
Listen, they can still be heard. Un-buried from beneath our feet.
35
Chapter 7
NICE GOING
Song and Lyrics:
Where To Begin
By: My Morning Jacket
“Always startin’ over but somehow,
I always know where to begin…”
Ten minutes before show time. A long line and a sign that reads, “CASH
ONLY.” “Fuck, I knew I should have gotten cash.” Luce looked around for an ATM,
scaned the crowd for Javi. She hadn’t seen him in awhile. He was a trendy guy, good
looking in an exotic, odd sort of way. She noticed him standing against a wall, eyes
focused across the street. Luce followed his eyes to a line of short skirts and heels and
laughed to herself. It was the one thing that bothered her about him. She shouldn’t care,
they weren’t anything more than friends, but it bothered her all the same. “Hey there.”
Luce bumped him on purpose. He lost his balance, shifted to the side and reached his
arm out. “Hi. I didn’t see you coming.” “I could tell,” Luce said. “What?” “Oh
nothing.” Together they walked back toward the line. A neon sign in the window across
the street outlined the letters A-T-M. “I didn’t bring any cash. Mind waiting here while I
run across the street?” “You’ll get charged some ridiculous amount if you use that thing.
I got you. You can pay me back later.” “Alright. Thanks.” They waited, awkward, like
two people just getting to know each other. “Since when have there been dance clubs on
36
this block?” House music beats shot across the street every time the door opened. There
was a chill in the air and the girls in line looked cold. “They should put some pants on. I
mean, really, they barely have anything covered.” Luce pulled her sleeves over her
hands. “I don’t mind. Freedom of expression, baby. I’d wear one of those skirts if I had
legs like that.” Javi knew this comment would dig under Luce’s skin and he anticipated a
smack on the arm. Luce only shook her head and stepped forward in line, leaving Javi
standing alone. He spun on his heels and dropped his box of tissue. “Why are you
carrying a box of tissue?” “Did you see the preview to this movie? I’ve come prepared,”
he said and grinned. “How bout you prepare your wallet since we are up next.” Luce
was uncertain about Javi. In art class, he always wore a beanie and a long sleeved shirt
regardless of the weather. When the professor asked questions he never failed to try and
challenge her, offering information beyond the lesson. When she is drawn to a person,
she likes to explore. It wasn’t a sexual attraction. She felt his making. His brutal
honesty, the way he wore long sleeves when it was hot or short sleeves when it was cold,
the way he debated everything and the way she wasn’t afraid to prove him wrong. But
that was in class. They have only met a couple of times off campus and there always
seemed to be an invisible force in the way of her feeling at ease. “I thought you said your
cousin was coming with you?” “He’s running late. He should be here.”
“Next.”
“Do you take student ID’s?” The attendant behind the glass gave a blank stare. Luce
reached into her bag for her wallet, opened the orange flap and pulled out her ID. “Do
you take student ID’s?” She held the ID up to the window, repeating the question, slower
37
this time. The attendant stared again with a look of agitation and sort of shook or nodded
her head. Luce couldn’t tell exactly what she meant, but assumed it was yes. Luce
turned around and said to Javi, “Why is she looking at me like I’m stupid?” “I’m not
looking at you like you’re stupid. I couldn’t hear you. Twelve dollars.” Luce looked at
her, embarrassed, but said nothing. Javi paid her and took the tickets. “Way to go, Luce.
You pissed her off.” “Well, what did she expect? I was asking her a question and she
was just staring at me with a look like I was inconveniencing her. I could feel her
negative energy.” They handed their tickets over at the door. “Maybe I shouldn’t have
said it, but she needs to know what her body language is conveying or say she needs to
simply say she can’t hear.” Javi was listening, but kept walking. He wanted to make
light of the situation, but he could tell Luce was bothered. “I think my cousin should be
here. You want to save seats and I’ll go see if he’s here?” Luce mumbled something to
Javi in response. He ran back up the stairs. At the end of a long corridor, Luce entered
the theater. The room was small with dim lights that cast a shadow of her on the wall.
She followed the red carpet isle to three seats in the center row, all the while replaying
the exchange of words with the attendant. The shine of the red carpet emphasized her
burning cheeks. She thought about how the girl said she couldn’t hear her. “So she
couldn’t hear me when I was talking straight to her face, but she could hear me when I
was turned in the opposite direction?” She took a deep breath, placed her coat on the
third seat and fell into her seat. Javi snuck up behind Luce with his box of tissue and
placed it on her head, tapping the top of the box like a drum. “You are such a child.”
“Luce, this is my cousin, Hector.” Luce turned to shake his hand. “It’s nice to put a face
38
to the person Javi talks about.” Javi flashed Hector a look. Luce dismissed Hector’s
comment with raised eyebrows.
Subtitles played in Spanish. On the screen, Brazil, a run down apartment, a dying
father trying to redeem himself, a bipolar mother, kids caught in the middle of life and
death. Luce pulled a tissue from Javi’s box. Both his hands were on either side. He felt
the tug, looked down and watched her fingers slide tissue between plastic flaps. Luce
shifted in her seat several times blowing her scent toward Javi. He noticed, but remained
statue stiff. He focused on subtitles only removing his eyes every time Luce reached for
his box. She hadn’t anticipated tears. She was surprised Javi was interested in a movie
like this. Every now and then she glanced at him. He felt her eyes on him, but remained
rigid. By the end of the film, his legs went numb. When the lights came back on, Javi
flexed his feet and suffered through the needle sensation of sleeping legs. Hector jumped
up, climbed over them and raced to the bathroom. Javi and Luce sat, staring at the
screen, sniffling and rubbing swollen eyes. “Did you cry?” “Did I cry? Javi, look at
me.” He looked, for a second, before trying to bend his legs. “We should get going.
Hector is probably waiting for us.” Luce raved about the film as they got caught at the
tail end of the exiting crowd. Hector was nowhere to be found in the lobby. They headed
upstairs and Luce became flushed with embarrassment all over again. She was afraid of
running into the attendant. “Luce, you feeling ok? Your face is all red.” “Let’s go out
the side doors. We’ll beat the crowd.” Luce felt relieved when she saw Hector sitting on
the fountain. “You two took long enough. So, what’s next? Drinks?” Luce felt her ears
begin to burn, but the cool air made her shiver. She was anxious. She felt Javi looking at
39
her and heard Hector whisper, but couldn’t make out his words. “I’m gonna head home.
It’s late and I’m tired.” She checked her pockets for keys, found them on the left side.
“It was nice meeting you, Hector.” Javi continued to hold on to the box of tissue. He felt
safe, comfortable. “Thanks for inviting me, Javi. I owe you. Maybe we can do dinner or
something.” Luce reached out to hug Javi and hit the box. Javi managed to release one
hand, giving Luce a half hug. “Alright. See you later.” Hector watched Javi and Luce
and shook his head. Luce walked around front, passing the line of a new group of girls in
short skirts and high heels. She glanced back to check the ticket window; happy to see it
was empty.
40
Chapter 8
CRACK IN THE FOUNDATION
Song and Lyrics:
You Are The Best Thing
By: Ray Lamontagne
“Baby, we’ve come a long way
And baby
You know I hope and I pray
That you believe me
When I say this love will never fade away”
Wood posts in wet earth turn to rot from moisture. Mold, slow to eat away at its
structure. Casey has seen it. She has watched it grow, slow, for over a year. She kept
thinking she should do something about it, but the weeks were too busy and weekends
were filled with too much fun. She forgot about the trellis or pushed it off until, while
standing at the kitchen sink, she looked out and noticed her once sturdy trellis leaning
forward.
“I am turning thirty soon.”
“Are you excited?”
“I don’t know? Sometimes it feels like there is so much I want to do, but there isn’t
enough time.”
“Time is a figment of our imagination. The only time we have is now. Have you noticed
that the trellis is leaning?”
41
“I’m going to be thirty.”
“Is that why you have this sudden urge to have children?”
“If I get too old, I’ll be falling apart before they reach adulthood. I want to be able to do
things with my kids, not be crippled.”
“Let’s go on a trip before we have kids. A monumental trip. Our last who-rah.”
The following morning Casey is finishing breakfast dishes and Eva is sitting at
the kitchen table reading her email. Shadows dance upon the back patio. Water slips
over Casey’s hands as she washes plates, her eyes lingering on the trellis. New growth
sprouted off vines, taking over. If she didn’t get to it soon, the structure, secured by the
vines, would be too difficult to take down. She admired the way the vines took over and
made the falling trellis look new, hiding the cracks. When they first bought this house,
they were most excited for the potential of the yard. The made plans for a garden, a place
to kick up their feet and let the dogs run wild.
“Do you think we could go get some flowers today. I’d like to plant some around the tree
in the back.”
“Sure.”
“When do you want to go?”
Water splashed off a plate, soaking the front of her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra and
her flesh showed. “I need to change, then we can go.”
On the way to the store, the radio played, soft, among the silence. Eva looked out the
window, almost as if on purpose. Casey peered out the corner of her eyes, watching her
movements.
42
“What kind of flowers should we get?”
“Not sure. They are having a sale.”
“Oh.”
The tires rounded a corner into the parking lot. A tick-tick from a pebble stuck in one of
the grooves echoed in the wheel well. Light flickered on Eva’s sunglasses causing her to
turn her head toward Casey. Her lips, her eye lashes.
“What?”
Casey parked the car and Eva jumped out, dropping her wallet on the ground.
“Is there anything you want to look at?”
“Sledge Hammers.”
“Why do you want to look at one of those?”
Eva turned, wondering off into a sea of flowers. Casey followed, holding her hand over
tall grasses, swiping her fingers along a lavender stem and pulling them up to her nose.
“What do you think of this?” Eva held up a lump of green.
“Moss?”
“I think it would look good in the back where it’s all shady.”
Casey pretended to listen as Eva spewed her brilliant ideas about landscaping, shaking
her head and sounding uh-huhs at the appropriate moments. She wandered behind Eva,
breathing in the moist air of the greenhouse.
“I’m going to run inside real quick and look at a few things. I’ll be right back.”
Casey walked straight to the sledgehammers. They weren’t the best tools for the
job, but Casey had an urge to demolish the trellis. She looked at the saws, both electric
43
and hand-held. The electric teeth were frightening and a hand-held saw would take too
much time. She wanted it done and over with.
When they returned home, Eva, no longer interested in planting, set the potted plants
under the tree.
As weeks passed, Casey longed to knock down the trellis. She walked around it
several times in the evenings, surveying the difficulty in taking it down. She shook it.
Kicked it. Hung on it. Only one side of the posts were coming out of the ground. The
other side still had a firm hold. A chainsaw would work, but she didn’t own one and
wasn’t convinced it would be satisfying. It would have to be done by hand, piece by
piece. There were too many bolts and screws to smash it down.
By the time Eva was finally ready to plant the flowers, they were almost dead.
She knelt down on her knees and with a little garden shovel began digging. The ground
was hard. Tiny dust clouds formed as the wind blew. Casey watched as Eva formed a
hole in the ground.
“Would you like some help?”
“It’s too tough.”
“Maybe we can try wetting the dirt.”
Casey pulled the hose to where Eva was kneeling and sprayed water over the
ground. The dirt turned from light brown to dark. Together they dug their hands into the
ground, deeper and deeper until they formed a hole. Eva placed the roots with care into
the ground and folded dirt over them.
“Thanks, babe.”
44
“Of course.”
Both women smiled.
“Do you want to finish the rest?”
“Only if you help.”
With their hands, deep in the ground, Casey forgot about the trellis and enjoyed the feel
of mud on her fingers. She lifted her hand and flicked mud on Eva’s face. Eva glared at
Casey, but then broke into laughter.
“So that’s how you want to play?”
Eva picked up a patch of mud and smeared it on Casey’s face. Casey threw mud
back. Mud flew and soon water was the sprayed with the hose, drenching both women.
With their faces smeared and smiles widened, they saw each other. They came close,
laughing and light, and kissed. Nothing mattered; the trellis, the nearly dead flowers.
Everyday Casey and Eva watered the flowers under the tree and they blossomed
with bright colors, but routine set in and the flowers became part of the backdrop, unseen.
Casey fell to her obsession. If only she could tear the trellis down and build a new one.
One that was more stable. Or perhaps she could cut away the branches surrounding the
trellis to let in more light. On a Saturday while Eva was away, Casey took a hammer, a
ladder and a toolbox from the shed. She marched to the back of the yard, over dried
leaves, to the trellis. Inside the toolbox she ran her hands across the socket wrench. She
tried several sockets before finding the one that fit. The bolts were rusted and snug. One
by one she twisted them off and shoved them into her jean pocket. Many elaborate spider
webs cover corners and bugs flew or crawled around. Usually Casey was more careful,
45
but she no longer cared. She didn’t wear gloves or a long sleeve shirt and she didn’t wipe
her hands, as they got dirty. She let dirt sink into her dry skin, staining this moment. She
took the hammer and began hitting the smaller pieces nailed to the top, ripping the nails
from the wood. Dirt flew into her eyes and hair, glittered like dust. Some pieces had to
be pulled out, stuck in between vines. Casey pulled on a thick piece of vine, dead and
dried, but still strong. She pulled and shook until it splintered, sending shards of itself
through Casey’s hands. She didn’t flinch. She looked down to find tiny splinters in her
palm and finger. Her instinct was to pick them out, but she left them. The sting felt
good. Made her feel alive. Her body would push them out on its own. Until then, she
gave them a safe place to hide.
After a few hours, her vigor weaned. It would be a while before she would be
able to pull the whole thing down and rebuild a new one. With a sense of satisfaction and
disappointment, she lugged the tools back to the shed and hauled the wooden pieces to
the garbage.
Eva returned home. Casey fingered the splinters in her palm and desired to hold her.
“How was your day?”
“Good.”
“Do you want to go out for dinner?”
“I’m kinda tired. Can we order take out?”
“Sure.”
Casey stepped toward her.
“I think we should get Chinese. Do you want Chinese?”
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She stepped closer. Eva unpacked her bag at the kitchen table. She pulled out her
notebook, wallet and a pen.
“You should call that place on Montgomery. I like their spring rolls. “
Wind chimes rang from outside the kitchen window reminding Casey of the day they
found them on the coast. They were pretending to be tourists and found a small shop on
the pier. The woman behind the counter was a crafter and made most of the trinkets in
the shop. The wind chime is what drew Eva to take a look inside.
“Do you remember the number? Do you want to go with me to pick it up?”
“Do you mind going?”
Eva walked out of the kitchen, leaving Casey standing against the counter, staring
out at the wind chimes. She pictured them standing on a cliff in sweaters, wind blowing,
the camera held out with one arm. Waves crashed on the shore. A stone dropped to the
pit of her stomach. The lines between what was real and what was not blur. She
questioned her perception, but her heart, her body, felt. She knew. She believed. It’s all
there, somewhere, in the routine. In the six o’clock dinners, the dirty laundry, the yard
work and the dishes.
She was no longer hungry. Casey picked up the Chinese food and brought it to Eva. She
watched her eat, a member of an audience viewing someone else’s life.
“I’m going to do some work in the yard.”
“Don’t you want to eat first?”
“No, I’m ok.”
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Eva plunged her chopsticks into the carton and turned her attention to the TV.
Out in the shed, Casey grabbed every tool she could find, dragging them over to the
trellis. If she could just knock the damn thing down she could rebuild a new one. She
climbed the ladder to start with the vines. The vines were strong, but the pruner cut
through with a few repeated bits. She cut and threw the vines. Leaves separated, floating
to ground. The dogs jumped out of the way. Casey ripped and teared at the vines until
the trellis was naked. She pulled the ladder to the other side, leaning to dismantle small
wood pieces. It teetered, she caught herself, but missed a step and fell, scraping her arm
on the way down. She laid on a pile of brush, the cool earth beneath her. She looked up
at the trellis with eyes wide. Her fists clenched and she released a scream from deep
down; a scream from some unfamiliar place. Eva ran out of the house, calling Casey.
She found her on the ground, blood running down her arm.
“What did you do?”
“I just want to tear this old thing down.”
“You don’t have to do it all at once.”
“It has to be done now.”
Blood and dirt covered the scrap on Casey’s arm. Eva helped her up and walked her to
the patio. She rushed into the kitchen, wet a towel and rushed back to Casey.
“This might sting, but we have to get the dirt out.”
Eva pat her arm with gentleness, taking care not to rub to hard. When most of the dirt
was out, Eva took a new towel and laid it on Casey’s arm.
“Now keep this on for a few minutes. I’m going to get the antiseptic.”
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Casey held in her tears. The stone in her stomach and the lump in her throat
consumed her. She stood still on the patio. The sky was on the midst of an evening
twilight. The air, sweet and cool. Crickets singing. Mosquitoes dressing for dinner.
Casey held onto her arm. She needed a new plan. A creative way to use what tools she
had to take it down. She would try again, but later. Later, after Eva attended to her
wound.