Fiction

“House Special”

© By Tina Ivany

Terry grabbed the house special – pork chops, mashed potatoes, and lima beans – and wondered how many times she’d delivered it.  She couldn’t say for sure, but if her feet could talk she knew they’d answer way too many.  If she had any brains,

she’d direct those feet right out the door of this godforsaken diner and kiss this boring town goodbye.

Last year, when she had enough saved up and she was sure she was out of here, her mother fell sick, so she stayed.  Then she blew the money on other things.  Stuff. Nothing to show for it, and here she was again delivering slop to the ingrates who had nothing better to do with their time than hang out at Cliff’s.

She stopped at table number four and set the plate down in front of Professor Higgins.  That was her name for him.  Some kind of egghead they said, new to town, teaching up at the college.  Math or something.  As if it made a difference.  Last place Terry would ever find herself.

“Excuse me,” he said, directing a bony finger at the beans.  “What’s this?”

She wanted to say what’s it look like to you?  How many things in this world are puke yellow and shaped like a kidney?  Instead, she answered, “Lima beans.”

He nodded.

Shifting her weight to one foot, she waited while he stared at the plate.  “You like lima beans?” she finally asked.

“Not particularly,” he said, over-pronouncing, drawing out the word as if it had forty syllables instead of the five she thought it was.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, doing the same thing, trying her best to sound sympathetic.

“Not to worry, I’ll change them for something else.”

Terry sighed.  Sam, her boyfriend, asked who the hell eats lima beans and her answer was they all do, all the losers who come in here and whine and belch and take up her time chewing the fat or their cud or whatever.  All except for this guy.

The professor looked at her, curling his upper lip.  “Is there a problem, Miss uh…?”

“Terry.”

“Ah. Terry.  Short for Theresa?”

“No,” she said, “Terralynn.”

He smiled and handed her the plate, “Well, Terry, Terralynn, would you kindly ask

chef if he’d mind changing this for something else?”

“Well, I’ll see, but he don’t usually make changes to the House Special.”

“I see,” he said, with a satisfied smirk.

Yeah, you see all right.  You see squat, Mr. Artsy Fartsy.  Looking at me like I’m something you rub off your feet.  They all had that look about them.  As if they knew some secret they didn’t want to let you in on.  Trouble was, they did know something.  There was a key to that smugness, but she’d never been able to find it.

“Well, then I’ll ask him myself,” he announced.

Terry took the pencil from her pocket and tapped it on her pad.  “Well, I don’t know.”  She transferred her weight to her other foot.  “Cliff, see, he don’t come out from behind the counter for no one”

This seemed to amuse him.  “My, my,” he said, “a man of conviction.”

Terry’d had enough. S he snatched up the food and carried it back to the kitchen and banged the plate on the serving counter.

“Hey, what’s-a-matter?”  Cliff said.

She leaned in closer and whispered through her teeth, “I’ll tell you what the matter is.  It seems Mr. Fuss Fart over there don’t like lima beans.  Can you imagine that?”

“Oh, he don’t, eh?”

“That’s what I said.”

Cliff looked at her as if she’d sprouted horns.  “And did you explain our policy to Mr. Fusspot?”

“Yeah, I did.”  Sounding as bored as she felt.  “And here I am.”

“Well, that’s the only vegetable I got today.”  A big grin spread over his jaw.  “That’s why it’s called the house special.”

Terry retrieved the plate and took it back to Professor Higgins.  “Cliff says no substatooshins.  In other words, that’s the only vegetable he has today.”

Picking up his fork and knife, he said, “So be it,” and proceeded to eat the rest without another word.

When the man was gone, Terry began to clear the table.  The lima beans were still there, along with a ten spot on the table.  She stared at the money.  $6.99 for the special.  Three bucks for her.  And something else.  Underneath his plate was a business card.  Willis Campbell Fry, it read.  Associate Professor of Psychology.  She didn’t get it.  What was this?  An announcement?  An invitation?  But to what?

She slipped the card into her pocket and never gave it another thought, until the following week when he appeared again.  She wasn’t surprised, considering that this was the best of only three places to eat in town.  Where else was he going to go?

“Good day, Terralynn,” he said, rubbing his hands together.  “Ah, spring is in the air.”  She handed him a menu and he opened it with a flourish.  “Well, now, what has chef got up his sleeve today?”

She wondered why he was so cheery.  “Did you know you left your business card here the other day?”

“But, of course.”  He looked up and smiled.  “In retrospect, I thought you would have called me by now.”

She studied his face.  He wasn’t a bad looking guy, if you changed the hair, got rid of the prissy clothes and updated the glasses. S he figured him for around forty.  But where was he coming from?  She had him pegged as the last guy on earth who would hit on her.

“Look, Mr. uh, Professor Fry.  I’m not in the habit of calling men.  I got a boyfriend, you know, and he wouldn’t appreciate it if I was messing around.”

He laughed.  Not a big hearty laugh, more like a hiccup.  “Oh, my dear, I can assure you I have no desire to mess with you, not in that way.  I thought I might tap your brain and have some fun with your mind.”

This was a different angle, if she ever heard one.  Men.  They all had some nerve.  Even the geeky ones had some line.  “Oh, yeah?” she said.  “Like what?”

“I’m looking for research subjects.  To test my theory that knowledge is a great untapped resource.  All it needs is the means to make it soar to the surface.”

“Hmmm,” she said.  “Like oil or something.”

“Exactly.”

“And you think I could be like this oil well … or whatdoyacallit?  Fountain?”

“A fount of knowledge.”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re willing, I’m sure you’re able,” he said.

And she agreed.

That night when Terry explained all this to Sam, she definitely had his attention.  “So, is this guy gonna pay you for your great knowledge?” he teased.  Smart ass.  Always looking at the money angle.  Not that it ever did him any good.  Sam was like a good scratch… a way to get rid of a temporary itch, but that was all.   She’d learned long ago that Sam, with all his cockamamie theories about blowing this town – heading for the mountains and wide open spaces – was not the answer to her prayers.  But maybe, just maybe, this guy was, in a roundabout way.

**********************

Mansfield College was perched on the top of a hill, like some remote ivory tower that overlooked the rest of the town.  Terry had never walked up the hill without feeling that she was intruding on hallowed ground.  The road leading up to it defined the sharp contrast between the lower old town and the swank more lucrative neighbourhoods surrounding the campus.  Life up here was loftier and almost self-sustaining. T hey had shoppes, not stores.  If you lived on the hill, your only need to mix with the lowly natives below was when your car needed a brake job or your air-conditioner quit.

A lush green park that circled the campus was the common ground between the upper and lower echelons.  Its tall pines and cedars lined the hillside and pathways and a rocky stream meandered through the thick growth at the bottom.  The park was the nicest spot in town, frequented by dog walkers and lovers going for a stroll seeking some privacy.  When Terry came here, it was usually with a friend or alone.  Never with Sam, who had other things on his mind besides nature or romantic strolls.  She enjoyed the peace of the place.  But she’d never been inside any of the buildings.

The cool dark carpet of ivy creeping up the stone walls reminded her of church.  As she wandered down the hall searching for the classroom, her eyes strayed to the pictures lining the walls – the vast procession of graduates who had passed through these corridors.  Maybe their big secret was about to be revealed.  Curiosity alone had brought her this far.  She just hoped it was worth giving up an evening of nothing better to do.

Terry took a deep breath when she found Room 374, with its door ajar.

“Come in, come in.  Take a seat.  Anywhere is fine,” Professor Fry announced from the front of the room.

Terry chose a seat near the back, hoping to remain inconspicuous, so she could make a fast exit if she had to.  She looked around, trying to find some link amongst the dozen or so already gathered, but there was nothing to distinguish one person from the other.  Maybe that was his point.  They all looked the same – shit for brains.  At least she wasn’t alone.

Minutes clicked by as she watched Fry flit about, opening books and retrieving papers from a leather briefcase.  She began to wonder if he’d ever get started and she was just thinking this was all a waste of time, when she heard a commotion behind her.  A man dashed past her towards the front of the room.  He ran around the lectern, grabbed a sheaf of papers and bolted out a side door.  Professor Fry looked temporarily stunned, then he turned and ran out the door after him.

Everybody looked at somebody else.  She heard someone say, “That was weird,” but nobody moved.

The door opened again and Professor Fry stepped into the room.  “It’s okay.  Welcome to Psychology 101.  That was your first test.”

Snickers.  Coughing.  People shifting in their seats.  Terry didn’t think it was funny.  She was still going over what she had seen.

Fry raised a hand.  “Quiet please, people.  What I want you to do is write down everything you observed about what just happened.  I want to know all the physical details you can remember – height, weight, clothing – everything you can recall.  I’ll give you three minutes.”

Terry wrote furiously as details spilled out of her head onto the page.  Blue jacket, dark blue; beige pants; black, no,  brown shoes.  Hair mousy brown, bald spot in the back, like a monk.  Large hands.  He grabbed papers – how many – too quick, she couldn’t be sure.  Three?  Four?  Say three.  Height?  Say 5-10.  Weight?  160-175, call it 170.  That was it.  She put the pencil down.

“Time,” Fry said, then moved about the room, asking each individual to name one thing they had observed.  So far, Terry was scoring well.  Weight was 185, but she wasn’t that far out.

He raised a hand.  “What about the papers?  Does anyone know?”

The answers came back. “Three.  Four.  Five.”

“You’re all wrong,” he said.

More groans.  More guesses.

“No.  It’s not the number, but what happened afterwards.

“He left the room,” someone shouted.

“But…” Fry said, “he didn’t take the papers with him.  He put them back.”

Some people slapped their desks; others expressed shock.

Fry nodded.  “That’s right.  And you all missed it.”

Yes.  Every one of them had missed it, but it didn’t matter.  Terry was hooked.

Fry gripped the podium.  “This was not a test of skill, but of observation.  There are no marks here, no points to score.  The object of this exercise was simply stimulation.  In other words, a brain teaser.”  He strode to a screen and pulled it down.  Pictures of animals – lions, giraffes, elephants, whales, came into view.

He tapped the screen and stood beside it.  “Of all living creatures, man has been given the most complex brain – a truly great gift.  To not use it is a sin, a profound waste.  Complex as it is, it acts like every other muscle in your body.  Use it and it will perform for you when you need it.  Learning to use it is a talent that can be developed like any other – and I’m going to show you how.”

Terry felt a warm rush.  She couldn’t wait to get started.

In the following weeks, he threw everything at them.  She came home with books she’d only heard about, but never read:  Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Orwell, even the Bible.  What she didn’t understand, she made notes of to discuss in class, or afterwards while others drifted off or fled the scene altogether.  When you broke it down, it wasn’t all that complicated.  All these books dealt with basic human emotions.  The circumstances might be different, but the characters’ reactions weren’t that much different from hers.

But that was only the beginning.  This Fry guy wasn’t just smart; he was tricky.  If she’d known he was going to tackle math in the next few sessions, she would have checked out, but each week brought a new surprise.  He knew if he announced somebody’s worst subject, they might not come back.  And a couple didn’t.

This was nothing like the math she’d had in school that might as well have been another language.  This held her interest, learning all about angles, and formulas and applying them to solve puzzles.  In the process, she gathered more respect for Fry, wondering how one person could know so much.

Then he took them into the laboratory, performing tests.  Brain teasers, psychological tests, Myers-Briggs.  She was an “INTJ,” which meant that she was extremely analytical, probably the reason the math came easily; although that didn’t explain why she had failed in the past.

Somehow, she didn’t know how, she had found the key.  The more she absorbed, the more she could feel her mind opening up, like the petals of a flower, revealing life’s dark secrets one by one.  All of the things that used to bother her were inconsequential now.  Her job, the people around her shrank to the back of her expanded mind, replaced by desire and curiosity.  Even Fry became tolerable.  All of a sudden he didn’t seem so dorky.  Fry treated everyone equally in class, but in their private moments when they got deeply involved in questions she raised, she saw another side to him.  This was a man she could actually talk to, hold a conversation with.  He began to explain the basis of psychology, talking about the pioneers of the science, which he still adamantly believed it was – men like Herschfield who invented the Bell Curve.  She learned that intelligence wasn’t static:  that things like heredity, environment and a person’s upbringing had a great impact on the ability to learn.  It explained a lot about her own life and where she was now.  Each time she climbed that hill, she felt like she was climbing a mountain.  Mansfield College was her Everest and she was halfway there.

She found a bench on the highest rise in the park that she escaped to each day with her nose in a book.  Professor Fry was almost upon her before she looked up.

“Ah, you’ve found my favourite spot,” he said, standing beside her.

“Yeah.  Best view around.”  She looked up and shaded her eyes with her free hand.  “You know, if I’d come up here a few years ago, everything I’m learning now, I would have known already.”

“Ah, hindsight,” he said, with a sigh.  “A wonderful thing, but there again, timing is everything.  Sometimes you have to get to higher ground to view the world from a different perspective.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I was trying to say.”

He sat down and put his hands on his knees.  “Not to worry, Terralynn.  Some of us are early bloomers.  Others late.  First we have to start with a clean slate, free of encumbrances.  A lot of people only begin to learn when all else has failed.”

“Is that what I looked like to you?  A failure?”

“No.  Not at all.”

“What then?”

“Tired.  Bored.  Angry, I suppose.”

She remembered. “You forgot rude.”

“Not rude, just frustrated.”

“So, what am I going to do with all this new knowledge?  That’s the question.”

“It will come to you.  Let it ferment.”

***********************

Sam was one person who was not impressed with all her learning.  “Every time I see you now, you got your head in a book.  Hell of an interesting person you turned out to be.”  What he meant was that she had no interest in him anymore, but she ignored his jibes.  When he stopped coming around at all, Terry hardly noticed he was gone.  One day he appeared at the diner, restless, itching to talk.

“Got a minute,” he said, when he could get her attention.

She gave Cliff the nod and slipped out the back door.

Sam stood beside his truck.  “I’m leaving, Terry.  Just came to tell you in case you wanted to come with me.”

“Where you off to?” she asked, more for something to say than for curiosity’s sake.

“Wyoming.”

“Wyoming, huh?”  This was one of the dream places he often talked about.

“Yeah, I figured it was about time to stop talking and just go.”  He looked off in the distance.  “There’s gotta be something better out there.”

“I’m sure there is,” she agreed.  “Good for you.”

“Listen, I got a job lined up.  A good paying job.  I figure we could get married.  They got a college close by and you could take classes if you like and…”

She shook her head and leaned against the wall.  “No, Sam.”  He was a little late.  Too late.

“Well, why not?  I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Maybe I thought I did… I’m just beginning to feel my way.”

“Guess I should of asked you before…”

“I suppose.  And I might have said yes… but things change.”

“You’ve changed.”  He kicked his foot against the tire.  “Do you honestly know what you want, Terry?”

“Not yet.”  She caught the look on his face.  “I’m sorry.  You’re right.  It’s nothing you’ve done.  It’s my problem.”

“That damn fool professor.  This is all his doing.  Got your head so full of crap, you don’t know what you want.”

“Well,” was all she said and held out her hand.  Sam didn’t take it.  He shoved his hands in his pockets, turned and stepped on the running board.  Terry heard the click of the door.  She could still go.  One word, a gesture – something might stop him.  But there were no words.  Nothing to fill the void or replace her new awakening.  She watched as Sam got back in his truck and roared off, kicking up dust and pebbles in his wake.

**********************

Willis Fry talked about sparks.  Well, Sam’s departure had just lit one under Terry.   She raced up the hill to catch Fry before class started and found him walking ahead of her in the park.  “Is this leading somewhere?” she asked him.

“Is what leading where?”  He watched as she struggled to get her breath, then pointed to a bench nearby.  “Here, have a seat.”

Terry sat down.  “I mean what good is all this knowledge?”

“Knowledge of itself is power.”  He turned to face her.

“Yeah, well, I feel like I’m about to burst.  Is that the power you’re talking about?  But what’s this all for?”  She stared at her lap.  “Am I working toward any kind of degree… something I can use?”

“If you want to.”

“Well, I really want to.  I have to.  I need to apply what I know.”

Fry rose and walked around in a circle. “ This is what I wanted.  What I hoped to see in this group.  The others… they’re just going along with the experiment, learning by rote, for ten bucks a night.  But you… I saw it right from the beginning.”

“Saw what?”

“That spark.  That little ember just waiting to ignite.”  He rubbed his hands together.  “Yes, decide which courses you want and we’ll enroll you right away.  With your progress, there should be no problem getting you mature student status.”

**********************

When Terry announced her plans to Cliff, he looked skeptical.  “So, what am I gonna do while you’re off finding yourself?”

“You’ll survive.  You always have.”

“So, I suppose this is your goodbye speech.”

“No, Cliff, I’m not going anywhere.  I can study what I want right here at the college.”

“So, you’ll stay on, then?  Jeez, am I glad to hear that.  It’s hard to get used to someone new.  I mean, you know the ropes.”  He paused and looked away.  “Besides, you’re good at handling the natives”

“Oh, they’re not all that bad.  Come out from behind that counter some day and you’ll see… some of them turn out to be pretty nice.”  She watched Cliff’s jaw work as he added another can of tomatoes to his famous chili.  “I’ll stay if you’ll promise me two things.”  She paused until she had his attention.  “Flexible hours and a new menu.”

“Oh, is that all?  What’s wrong with the old menu?”

“Too rigid.”

Cliff let out a big sigh.  “So this is what you’ve learned?  How to be a food critic?”

“I’m somewhat of an expert on house specials.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You bet.  I can state unequivocally that nobody who wants to stay in business would foist lima beans on his customers.”

“Is that a fact?”

She rolled her eyes.  “Yes, Cliff that’s a fact.”

**********************

Terry was so busy soaking up knowledge that the years flew by.  One day six years later as Terry walked out of Cliff’s place, a van pulled to a stop across the street and a man got out.  He was in shadow and Terry didn’t pay any attention until he crossed the road and headed towards her.  There was no mistaking his voice.

“Hey there, stranger.  How’s it going?”

“Sam,” she said.  “What are you doing back in town?”

“Oh, just back for a visit.  Thought I’d show the kids where Daddy hails from.”

Terry stepped closer.  “Kids?  That’s nice, Sam.”  She looked past him to a pretty woman with short blond curls watching them from the truck.  “Your wife?”

“Uh huh.  That’s Brenda.  And the kids – two girls and a boy – in the back.  I’ll introduce you if you like.”

Terry smiled, but didn’t move.  “Whew.  You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, well, you know.  You find you’re groove, you run with it.”

“Absolutely,” she said.

He met her gaze straight on.  “That coulda been you, Terry.”  His eyes said it all:  See what you missed?

Her own thoughts cancelled out any response.  Yes.  It could have been, but no stretch of the imagination could take her that far.

Satisfied, he pulled back his shoulders and placed his hands on his hips.  Still taut, still lean and mean in faded jeans.  He had that crinkled look that only home on the range could deliver.  He nodded toward Cliff’s.  “You still working there?”

“No, not for years,” she replied.  “I still take my business there.  You know… morning coffee, soup from scratch…”

“Watchyoualldoingnow?” he said.

Terry smiled.  It must be some cowboy thing.  “Teaching,” she said.

“Teaching?  No kidding.”  He smiled as he considered this giant surprise.

“Yes, high school.  British and World Literature.”

“Wow.  You?”

“Yup, little old me.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Funny, I thought you might have ended up with old whatsisname.”

“Willis?  No.  Not him.”

“So, someone else?”

“No one in particular.”

“You must get lonely.”

She shook her head.  “I never go to bed alone.”

“Jeez, Terry.”  He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice.  “You oughta be careful. That kind of thing can be dangerous…”

“You could be right,” she said, stepping back.  “Well, it was nice seeing you.  Have a good life, Sam.”

“Yeah.  Terry.  Nice seeing you,” he mumbled as she turned and walked away.

**********************

Preparing for bed that night, she thought about Sam, his wife and kids and hoped that he was truly happy.  Adjusting the pillows behind her, she rifled through the stack of books beside her bed.  Who will it be, she mused, as she selected one and settled into the softness?  Dickens.  Yes, young, earnest Nicholas Nickleby.  He would do nicely for tonight.

Tina Ivany is a longtime contributor to Artsforum Magazine and the author of “Cry for Chiweshe” (2017).

Copyright © 2021 by Tina Ivany

Editor’s Notes:   See our review of Tina Ivany’s book “Cry for Chiweshe” at:  https://artsforum.ca/books/featured-book-reviews

Visit the photography of Terry Rowe at:  https://terry-rowe.pixels.com/ And see our portrait of the artist at:  https://artsforum.ca/photography

*************************************************

The Slingshot

© By Brian Clabby

Johnny knocked the can from the fence-post with the stone fired from his new slingshot.  It was unusual with its carved wooden handle in the shape of a fish.  “Very expensive,” Johnny bragged.  I also had my own slingshot, which I had made from the “Y” of a tree branch and wrapped in elastic bands and tape to add

strength; but, after seeing Johnny’s, I somehow felt ashamed and hid mine down the back of my pants pocket.

Johnny and I had been neighbors and friends off and on since kindergarten.  Now, during the hot summer months, we keenly awaited our return to school into the fifth grade.  It was August, and we just hung out trying to find cool things to do in the summer’s heat.  Johnny’s family wasn’t rich, exactly, but he did seem to always have the newest and best of stuff.  His parents ran a small candy business, and he was never, it seemed, without some candy or a new expensive toy that he often wouldn’t share.  My father had died the year before after a long illness.  My mother had to go to work as a night janitor at a couple of the local schools.

So, after watching Johnny shoot the can off the fence, my job was to put it back on.  Only Johnny could use his new slingshot, or so he claimed.  Getting bored with being the go-for guy and not getting any of the action, I suggested we go down to the swimming hole to cool off.  At first Johnny didn’t want to go; but, as I started to walk down the road, he joined in with me, talking about how often he hit the can from the fence and how accurate his new slingshot was.

The swimming hole was a small portion of a river about a mile from our homes.  We stripped down to our shorts and jumped into the cold flowing water, splashing each other and yelling with joy.  After some time, we could tell it was getting late by the position of the sun and by the fact that we were getting hungry, so we ended our play and began to get dressed.  I saw Johnny’s slingshot slip from his pocket and was about to tell him when he finally spotted mine.  He began to make fun of it and of my family for not being able to afford a real slingshot.

I had to blink several times as I felt my face turn red, not with shame but with anger.  Seeing his slingshot still lying in the tall grass, I angrily threw my shirt over it and picked both up; hiding it, I began to stomp for home.

Johnny didn’t seem to notice the hurt or anger on my face but just went on talking all the way home.  Just as we were about to split up to go to our own homes, he screamed with the sudden realization he didn’t have his preciously expensive slingshot.  I could have, nay, should have, told him then and there that I had found it in the grass, but I was still feeling the sting of his statements about my family.  I suggested it must have fallen out of his pocket down at the swimming hole, which was true; I just didn’t add the fact that I had picked it up for him and that I still had it wrapped in my shirt.  The last I saw of Johnny was him running back down the street to the swimming hole.

Later that night, while my sister and I were watching the TV, I was busy in my own mind trying to decide what to do with the slingshot.  A knock came to the door.  It was approaching nine o’clock and someone was at the front door.  My sister got up to answer it, and they asked for me.  As I rounded the hallway corner to the front door, I froze in mid step.  Out in front of our house was a police car and standing to the side of the door was Constable Jones.  I knew him from school as our local officer.  Standing six foot four and at least two hundred pounds, he stood as a giant in his police blues.  Suddenly I had a very upset stomach.  Slowly, I made my way to the door, making each step shorter to add time, my eyes never straying from the blue uniform.  I couldn’t make eye contact as he loomed over me.  I feared he would immediately know I had taken the slingshot.

First question out of his mouth was:  Had I seen Johnny?  This was surprising to me as I was thinking Johnny must have already told him that I stole the slingshot.  That appeared not to be the case.  With a dry mouth I told him we had played that afternoon and then we went to the swimming hole.  He continued to probe about our afternoon:  Had we seen anyone?  Where there any strangers we met?  The strangest of feelings come over me and my head began to swim.  I finally asked what was wrong, as these weren’t the questions I was expecting

Constable Jones finally said that Johnny hadn’t come home for dinner and his parents were worried.  I told Constable Jones all we had done and seen that day but there were no strangers we met up with.  Of course, there was a gang of older kids that were known to cause trouble, like in every community, but they had been out of sight all that day.  Now, I was feeling twice as bad because if I had just told Johnny I had found his slingshot none of this would be happening now.  Thinking about how this mess could come to a horrible end and I was to blame, I went to take the dog for a final walk.  It was then I heard some noises in the bushes which frightened the bleepers out of me

It turned out to be Johnny and he told me he was running away, his face streaked from tears and his lower lip was puffy and bloodied.  He explained how when he had reached the watering hole, the gang of teens were there.  After he confronted them about the missing slingshot they called him a liar and proceeded to beat him up.  As soon as my heart got out of my throat and stopped banging away in my chest, I took a deep breath and slowly let it out.  Then I reached around to my back pocket and pulled out his slingshot.  His eyes widened at the sight, then narrowed as he looked at me with distrust and asked how it was that I had it.  I simply told him I had found it on the ground and was going to return it to him in the morning.  It wasn’t exactly a lie

We then walked to his home where Constable Jones met us.  It was likely a good thing the constable was there as Johnny got a major scolding for having run away.  He was grounded for several days after that; but, by the time school began again, he was his old self, making sure people knew he had money and the best of things.  We continued to hang around together for a few more years, and he stuck close to me whenever the older boys came around.  At least for a short time, however, he let me shoot some cans with his slingshot.  We would always have to hide it away whenever the older kids would come around as they would take it, teasing him with it.  Our friendship continued in a form of harmony for a time, but as our middle school days came, we found less in common, so eventually went on our separate ways

Today, I still occasionally find myself back in the old neighborhood, remembering those summer days.  As I take the small hand of my grandchild, I stop and stare at Johnny’s old house, as well as my own, and wonder what became of him.  Even after more than 50 years, all the old houses are still there; the only thing that has changed is the people living in them

“The Slingshot” was inspired by events in the author’s childhood in East York (Ontario) in the 1960s.  Brian Clabby was diagnosed with a severe learning disability in his youth; so, he has been pleasantly surprised by the positive reception his story has received (including an Honorable Mention in a writing competition):  “It just goes to show what a person can overcome when they really try.  I hope people can come away from reading my story with some strength to pursue their goals regardless of the obstacles.”

Copyright © 2020 by Brian Clabby.

Visit the photography of Terry Rowe at:  https://terry-rowe.pixels.com/ And see our portrait of the artist at:  https://artsforum.ca/photography

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 “Dirty Old Motel Room”

© By Kathryn Sussman

© Illustrated by Dennis Stillwell Martin

When my brother’s friend Darren killed himself, it stayed with me awhile.  Kind of haunted me.  It’s not like I thought about him all the time or anything, more like I couldn’t get him out of my dreams.  Sometimes I’d wake up all sweaty with my heart racing and have no clue what was the

matter with me.  Other times I’d lie awake in the morning replaying a crazy vivid moment over and over again in my head.  Like the time I saw him on his knees bending over the crumpled body of his mother in that dirty old motel room they found them in, his hands suctioned to the sticky bullet hole at the back of her head, just above the hairline.  Or the time I dreamt we were French kissing for hours on the black leather sofa in my den, me all curled up cross-legged in his lap twirling a piece of my hair with my right hand, and then suddenly he’s bleeding gobs of hot blood into my mouth and I want to throw up.  Those are the kind of dreams I had nonstop when my brother’s friend Darren died.

I’m thinking about all this now, two and a half years later, because last night I experienced my first real kiss.  But in the middle of it for about a half a split second, I thought I was kissing Darren, and for a half of that half a second, I felt the hot stickiness of his death blood.  Thinking about Darren almost ruined my first real kiss for me.  Almost wrecked what I’ve been waiting for, for as long as I can remember:  Not that I’ve been waiting to kiss Marcus specifically, but I’ve been waiting for my kiss since grade three French class when my pretty teacher Ms. Beaulieu showed our class the short French film about the babysitter sneaking her boyfriend into the house where she is babysitting.  She sneaks him upstairs into the pink bedroom, where they make out, until the parents come home and kick them both out of the house.  The young girl was so pretty with her long blond hair and pink sweater.  I wanted to be her and to be kissing more than I’ve ever wanted anything.  The colour pink just making everything prettier.

Marcus’ name is the opposite of pretty.  It is the first thing that attracted me to him.  You can feel muscles and hardness just saying it.  Second is that two other girls are madly in love with him.  He is dark and gorgeous.  Thin with glossy straight black hair and a girl nose.  When he kissed me last night the big whites of his eyes were everywhere and exposed.  My heart was going haywire. His breath on my mouth made my stomach shoot up into my throat then out the top of my head and I was flying.  The seconds stretched out into each other like strands of gum being pulled after it’s been chewed, and I was boiling hot.  His lips were warm and juicy like I thought they’d be.  His tongue was slippery and spongy and wet. Wet lips like an open cut and liquid inside, gooey like clotted blood; but I didn’t want him to stop kissing me.  Darren would have liked what I was thinking during the kiss.  He would have made me tell him about it up in his parent’s loft above the garage if he were still alive and if it hadn’t been because of him that I was imagining it.  He would have shown me naked magazines while listening to me tell him about kissing Marcus and thinking about clotted blood.  It would have excited him.

The week after Darren died I almost got hit by a car. People think I did it on purpose.  But I didn’t.  It was a freezing cold day, so bitter the cold had seeped through my bones making them feel like jelly, all numb and rubbery, so that they no longer even hurt.  I could smack my thighs together and not even feel that they had touched.  I remember the sunlight on the white snow blinding me and the smoke my breath made when I breathed out.  I was crossing the street a block up from my house without even looking, when an old crinkly woman all in purple with a boney red nose shouted to me, “Little girl! Little girl!” to warn me that a car was whizzing by, honking and going so fast I couldn’t even really see it, so fast that a gust of wind hit my face when it passed.  Almost ran over my toes.  My heart started racing and I sped up, running the rest of the way home.  When I got there, only my brother was inside.  I didn’t tell him what had happened. Just went into the living room and turned on the TV.  Tried to block out the redness and embarrassment from my mind.

I remember hearing the hard knock on the door a couple of minutes later.  Looking out the window and seeing the bony red nose standing there – all angry and stern.  My brother answered the door and I heard the nose telling him what I had done.  “She ran right out in front of that car,” the mean grump told my brother with a voice so loud it made my heart pound faster than I ever remembered feeling it pound before.  “I came to tell someone because she didn’t respond to me at all.  Are your parents home? Is your sister deaf?”  Nose demanded of my brother.  I got up and ran to the opposite end of the house as fast as I could.  Shut the door in the gray spare bedroom, my face red as Nose’s – a roasted tomato the colour of my mom’s homemade spaghetti sauce.  I curled up into a ball on the floor and thought of blue parrots and green rainforests.

A few seconds after that the front door slammed and my brother’s clunky footsteps came toward me.  He stood there asking me why I wouldn’t come to the door, wouldn’t leave me alone, demanded to know what had happened and threatened to tell my parents if I didn’t spill all the terrible details.  I looked at him so long without blinking, the grayness of the walls behind him mixed in with his eyes and he morphed into a gummy monster with three noses and a gaping watery mouth.  He never did tell them what I had done.  He isn’t the kind of person to do that sort of thing.  I have a feeling he even told the old red nose off for me – stood up for me and slammed the door in the crusty granny’s face.  Sometimes I still see her on the street, but I run away before she can get a glimpse of me.

Marcus is the kind of person I want to kiss again if I get the chance.  He’s the kind of person that makes you want to kiss again.  So pretty and deep you want to jump into him and just be him for a while.  Have everyone in love with you and thinking that they’d rather be you than themselves.  If I was Marcus I wouldn’t waste my time making out with me on my parent’s couch.  I’d take off on wild adventures, hitchhike to California and live on the beach, swim all day with dolphins and eat deep-fried chicken and French fries every night.  I wouldn’t be sucking face with gooey clotted blood leaking into my mouth and Darren staring straight into me like it’s my fault he died after all.  But I’m not Darren, I’m me, and for now, I can only be here imagining our next great kiss.

Kathryn Sussman is a Toronto writer and regular contributor to Artsforum when she’s not working on her doctorate.

Dennis Stillwell Martin is an artist, musician, and teacher; he is also a longstanding contributor to Artsforum Magazine.

Text © 2008 by Kathryn Sussman.

Illustration © 2009 by Dennis Stillwell Martin.

Illustrator’s note: This dark story gets the art deco sign of the seedy motel I’ve dubbed “Last Rest.” The clock is just before midnight: The end.

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“Tumbleweed”

© By Keri O’Meara

I sit on the platform and cry.  What else is there to do?  I have been trying to find my way in this foreign land for seven months now.  Trying to escape a maze with no exit. I am tired.  Too tired to panic.  Too tired to know how to proceed.  So I curse.  I curse and I cry.

Jen told me the ride from Saga to Nagasaki was peaceful and pretty.  She told me I

would see some southern country side, ancient mountains, and distant glimpses of the sea.   She told me the seats were comfortable and that a fatigued old man in his navy, Japan Rail uniform would come around with a food cart.  The seats were plastic and hard.  All I wanted was a coffee.  Jen only drinks tea. Earlier, when I woke up on her couch with a mouth like sandpaper and a foggy head, thoughts of the food cart were my lighthouse.  I’ll get a coffee and watch the scenery, I thought.  By the time I reach Nagasaki I’ll be out of the mist.  Clear, fresh, and awake, ready to explore a new city with Nathan. The food cart never came.

This morning, after we comforted our souls with tea and Texas-toast slathered in Vegemite, Jen and I hurried to the train station to meet her attentive Irish boyfriend.  They would show me which train to board and then catch their own.  He was taking her to a small Onsen town* for the evening.  I was envious.  I would have preferred a romantic night of hot springs over a sticky day of war museums, but Nate and I didn’t do things like that anymore.  Dependency had displaced romance.

At the train station, nostalgia gripped my bones as I hugged Jen goodbye.  She was my lifeline to a world that now seemed so far away.  During our three-day visit, I was reminded how much I missed the giggles, the adventures, and the shared reflections you only have with girlfriends.  I was surprised by the open car with plastic grey seats facing each other. This was not a typical JR train with cushy clean blue seats in rows of two separated by a wide aisle.  I sat facing an aging young woman with a permanent frown and deep circles under her distant eyes.  Her chubby child sat next to her quietly.  He stared at me, like all children do in this country.

When the train started to move, my heart sunk with the weight of reluctance.  I didn’t want to leave Saga.  The small bohemian town was filled with bustling streets, busy bars, and quirky people.  Jen had made friends from around the world.  We had hung out with Jamaicans, Brits, Australians, and Japanese–all out to explore and have fun.  It was what I had anticipated when Nate and I decided to travel together.  Instead we ended up in industrial Sendai with resentful colleagues as our only friends.  I was dreading going back to our routine.  Grey uniforms, ungrateful teenagers, and tired lesson plans.

On the train, my hangover was at its peak.  I knew I should be more excited to see a new city, but it felt like a chore.  I thought about Nate and how his light would fade if I was in a mood.  I wondered where the food cart was.  God, I wanted a coffee.  The rickety train passed through the outskirts of Saga.  The small apartment buildings turned into old houses, then farms and rice paddies.  The horizon was flat, with no sign of the sea.  The buzzing uneasiness in my head grew to a din.  I pulled out my phone, ignoring the ‘No Cell Phone’ sign hanging above the round glaring child’s head.  Jen didn’t answer.  I left a message describing the countryside. “Does that sound right?” I asked the answering machine.  “And FYI, there is no food cart,” I said, before hanging up.

Now, I curse Nate.  I want to call him.  I should have been more adamant that we get two cell phones.  “We’ll always be together,” he said.  “There’s no point in two.” I had backed down.  After all, he’s the logical one.  He always knows where we are and where we are going.  I wish he was here on this platform with me.  He’d know what to do.  At 12:45 pm the lonely train had stopped.  The tired mother grabbed her staring son by the arm and pulled him off.  I looked out the window at passengers exiting other cars, being greeted by loved ones on the platform.  The train’s engines turned off.  I was alone.  I curse myself for following Jen’s directions without question.  I curse myself for following Nate across the world.  I had let myself be whisked away and led blindly.  Now I am stuck in the middle of nowhere in this far away land.  Tumbleweed slowly, mockingly drifts passed me on the now empty and lonely train track.  My tears break and I cannot help laughing out loud.  “Seriously?  Tumbleweed?”  The Wild, Wild East, I think.  Nate would laugh at this irony with me if he were here.  Instead, I am alone.

The conductor came into the car, where I sat looking around dumbfounded.  His raised eyebrows betrayed his stoic authority.  He spoke to me in Japanese.  I got up and stared at him blankly.  “No Japanese,” I said.  “Oh, Oh,” he fumbled. “Last stopo,” he said, putting up his white-gloved hand. “Nagasaki?” I asked.  “No No.  Hasami.”  He motioned for me to get off the car. I waited on the platform while he ceremoniously checked the rest of the car.  “Excuse me. Um.  Su me ma sen?” I implored when he stepped onto the platform.  “Me,” I pointed to myself, “meet husband, Nagasaki, one, ichi. NOW.”  “Hmm Hmm.  Nagasaki.  Husband.  O.K.”  He nodded in understanding. “Chotta matte, chotta matte,” he said holding up his index finger.  He turned and walked briskly to the front of the train. I followed him. “Chotta matte!” he said again firmly, his hand going up indicating that I wait.  I breathed out slowly as I waited for him on the platform.  I watched as he gathered his jacket and brief case.  He came out of the conductor’s booth.  I prepared to bow and thank him for helping me.  Instead, I watched as he turned away from me.  His quick steps echoed as he hurried down the platform and out the front doors of the small barren station.

I am not completely alone. There are two young women halfway down the platform.  They are talking in whispers and sneaking glances at me.  I am angry. “What, you have never seen a gaijin before?”  I want to yell at them.  “Never seen a tall blonde girl crying hysterically here in Hasami?”  I realize that their glances are worried. I feel embarrassed and exposed.  The women are slowly making their way towards me.  I wipe under my eyes, pull my jean skirt down and sit up a bit straighter.  They stand in front of me timidly, toes pointed inwards. “Hello,” one of them says. “I am Ai, this is Chiori.”  The other nods bashfully.  “Hello,” I say, annoyed.  I reluctantly point to myself. “I am Cleo.”  “Uh … are you dai jo boo? Are you not happy?” says Ai, the shorter, prettier of the two.  “You speak English?” I say, looking back between them.  “Chotto.  A little bit,” says Ai.  Chiori smiles at me blankly.  “I’m supposed to meet my husband in Nagasaki at one.”  I look at my watch. “Now!  He was coming from Fukuoka, I came from Saga.  My friend put me on the wrong train.  I don’t even know where we are.”  My voice raises and the tears flow.  Chiori averts her gaze, uncomfortable with my emotional display. “Nagasaki?” Ai says.  “This is not Nagasaki.”  She says something in Japanese and a look of soft concern passes between the two women.  My panic instinctively backs down.  “You need to be Nagasaki?” Ai asks.  “Yes, Yes,” I say.  “I need to be Nagasaki.  My husband is waiting for me.  He will be worried.”  She explains to Chiori, who nods frequently.  “Is there another train?” I ask. “No.  The train to Nagasaki is in Obu.  It is half hour away in car.”  My stomach knots.  I’m going to have to walk to the next town with the tumbleweeds.  “It’s my hometown,” Ai tells me.  Both women are smiling.  Big, crooked-toothed, angelic smiles.  “I take you.”  “Na ne?”   I say.   “Really?”   “Yes, yes, my car is right here.”  She points to the parking lot.  We say goodbye to Chiori and get into Ai’s compact, dark blue car.

On the way to the station I find out Ai is a teacher.  “Like you,” she says.  “I have been to Canada.  Vancouver,” she tells me.  “Very Beautiful.”  Her English improves as the ride goes on.  We arrive at the train station in Obu.  Ai has become determined, motherly.   She speaks to the man in a green uniform at the ticket booth for some time, making polite gestures to me.  “Hai, Hai, Hai,” I hear him repeat the overused Japanese word for yes.  He understands.  Ai asks me if I would like anything to eat from the vending machine.  I could eat the whole thing.  I wonder if she has heard the mountains moving in my belly.  “No thank you,” I tell her.  She wants to stay with me, but I insist she has done enough.  “Dai jo boo?” she asks me.  “Dai jo boo,” I tell her.  “I am fine, really.”  I put my hands together and bow to her.  “Doma arigato gozaimasu,” I say.  She bows back and smiles.  “Douitashimashte,” she says.  “I wish you have a fine day in Nagaski.”  “I will,” I tell her.  I know it is true.  It’s the first time I have felt sure all day.

When I get to the central station in Nagasaki, Nate isn’t there.  I try looking for the arrivals from Fukuoka, but it is all in Kanji** and I can’t read it.  Nate translates everything for me.  In front of the station is a large square bustling with hundreds of people rushing to catch buses, milling about, and going in and out of stores.  I weave into the crowd, which, to my surprise and relief, is not paying attention to me.  I find an information kiosk and gather some tourist pamphlets.  I sit on a bench and wait.  I do not cry.  I look through the brochures and feel excited about all the things to do.  I take off my sweater and raise my head to the sun and thank it for sending me a guardian angel. Ai.

Twenty minutes pass and the familiar bubble of panic begins to rise.  I get up to walk back into the station wondering for the millionth time that day what I am going to do.  I hear my name.  Before I can turn around I feel Nate’s big hands around my waist. I bathe in relief.  Nate is out of breath.  “Oh my god, babe,” he says.  “I was so worried about you.  I was freaking out.  There was an accident on the highway; the bus was delayed.” I didn’t have our cell phone number with me.  You just assume everything will be on time in this country.  Oh my god, are you okay?”  He takes my head in his hands looking me in the eyes.  “Are you okay?” he repeats.  I give him a long tight hug breathing in the smell of his sweat and musky, soapy Swiss Army cologne.  This is what home feels like, I think.  “I’m fine,” I say looking directly into his concerned face.  “I am really glad you are here.  I’m looking forward to exploring with you,” I tell him.  He looks a bit surprised.  “I thought you would be tired and hung over from partying with Jen,” he says.  I smile and grab his hand.   “Nope, I am good to go.  Let’s start at Peace Park,” I say.  I grab his hand and lead the way.

Keri O’Meara is a Toronto writer who taught high school level English in Japan in 2004.  “Tumbleweed” is a fictionalized account of her experiences.

Text © 2011 by Keri O’Meara.

Editor’s notes: *“Onsen” is a Japanese term for hot springs.  Villages built around such springs draw Japanese and foreign tourists. ** “Kanji” is a reference to the thousands of pictogram-like characters used in Japanese writing.

Visit the photography of Terry Rowe at:  https://terry-rowe.pixels.com/ And see our portrait of the artist at:  https://artsforum.ca/photography