Invasion of the Bees and Other Stories

INVASION OF THE BEES AND OTHER STORIES

A Project

Presented

to the Faculty of

California State University, Chico

In Partial Fulfillment

of the Requirements for the Degree

Master of Arts

English

Spring 2019

INVASION OF THE BEES

AND OTHER STORIES

A Project

Emily Huso

Spring 2019

APPROVED BY THE INTERIM DEAN OF GRADUATE STUDIES:

Sharon Barrios, Ph.D.

APPROVED BY THE GRADUATE ADVISORY COMMITTEE:

Robert Davidson, Ph.D., Chair

Jeanne E. Clark, Ph.D.

PUBLICATION RIGHTS

No portion of this project may be reprinted or reproduced in any manner unacceptable to the usual copyright restrictions without the written permission of the author.

iii

DEDICATION

for Mom, the strongest woman I know

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank my chair, Dr. Robert Davidson, and my advisor, Dr. Jeanne

Clark, for their endless support during every stage of my work in the graduate program.

Jeanne, you have inspired and believed in me all along. Thank you for helping me to believe in myself. I treasure all your kind words.

Rob, you have seen some of my worst efforts and helped me to produce some of the best work I have ever written. Your feedback and guidance have been invaluable.

Thank you for all you have taught me and for serving as my chair for this project.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PAGE

Publication Rights ...... iii

Dedication ...... iv

Acknowledgements ...... v

Abstract ...... vii

CHAPTER

I. Critical Introduction ...... 1

Development and Influences ...... 1 Realism ...... 2 Magical Realism ...... 11 Next Steps ...... 15

II. Short Stories ...... 17

Invasion of the Bees ...... 17 Apart From You ...... 29 Swing ...... 42 Drift ...... 54

III. Flash Fictions ...... 65 Beach Town ...... 65 Afterwards She Counts the Money ...... 67 Skywriting...... 68 Luck ...... 69 High Tide ...... 72

IV. Works Cited ...... 73

ABSTRACT

INVASION OF THE BEES

AND OTHER STORIES

Master of Arts in English

California State University, Chico

Spring 2019

Invasion of the Bees and Other Stories is a collection of short stories and flash fictions that explore themes of paternal absence and neglect, female distrust of men, relationship discord, self-sabotage, and various forms of abuse. Firmly footed in the genre of realism, the short stories in the collection attempt to reveal the aspects of ourselves that we try to conceal, stifle, or seal away like bees in an attic. Tethered together by shared themes and setting, the flash fictions in the collection borrow elements of magical realism to expose our most secret vulnerabilities. The critical introduction discusses the craft aspects of realism and magical realism with respect to authors such as

Marilynne Robinson, Charles Baxter, John Gardner, Benjamin Percy, Alice Munro, and

Maria Romasco Moore.

vii

CHAPTER I

CRITICAL INTRODUCTION

Development and Influences

I attribute the writing style I have achieved in this collection to the influence of contemporary writers such as Marilynne Robinson and Alice Munro. I first encountered

Robinson’s Gilead trilogy during my senior year of my undergraduate studies at Walla Walla

University (WWU). My thesis project analyzed Robinson’s use of ruins as a metaphor for the legacy of slavery in the United States. Although I admired Robinson’s work in terms of its literary merit, I found myself particularly impressed by her graceful, revelatory prose.

Robinson’s novels, Housekeeping and the Gilead trilogy, instilled in me an appreciation for language, sound, and what Leesa Cross-Smith terms “quiet” stories: stories that treasure the

“small, quiet moments” and give the reader “room to think” (25). Having the opportunity to meet and interview Robinson at WWU further solidified my appreciation of Robinson’s voice and style, which is consistent between her writing and her speech. Because I so admire Robinson’s work, it has been my imperative to carefully attend to language, sound, and substance in my work throughout this collection.

Another writer who has profoundly influenced my style is Alice Munro. Munro’s intricate short stories in Open Secrets taught me how to interweave narratives from different timelines to capture the full complexity of characters. Munro taught me not to oversimplify my stories and characters in favor of tidy, superficial truths. As Flannery O’Connor wisely observes in Mystery and Manners, surface-level truths hardly ever suffice the fiction writer who truly seeks to understand: “[W]hat he sees on the surface will be of interest to him only as he can go

through it into an experience of mystery itself” (41). Thus, it is through capturing the

“experience of mystery” that we most closely approach the truth. As Munro demonstrates in her work, the truth is never simple. However, by rendering the “experience of mystery,” she provides insight into human character that could not be accessed otherwise. Munro’s work gave me license to explore new forms and chronologies and to embrace complexity and mystery as a step towards understanding.

My intention with each story in this project was to compel–—to create characters who demand attention and conjure experiences of mystery that have the power to permanently shift the axis of perspective for my readers. I wanted my stories to communicate such urgency that my readers could not help but lean in and listen.

Realism

The short stories and many of the flash fictions in this collection are firmly footed in the genre of literary realism. So many of my stories take up the subject of relationship dysfunction and attempt to discover what motivates interpersonal conflict. In order to invoke sympathy in my readers, I wanted to portray these stories as realistically as I could. My intention was to create stories realistic enough that readers could easily relate to and experience the conflict along with the characters. Although I utilized several craft strategies to achieve this effect, the following discussion addresses three craft aspects of realism that are prominent in my work: details, characterization, and subtext.

Details are a major craft device I utilize to give my fiction a realistic quality. As John

Gardner asserts in The Art of Fiction, in order to successfully ground a story in reality and convince the reader of its truth, realist writers must give the characters and events of the story the

appearance of being real, a degree of verisimilitude (22). Gardner argues that this verisimilitude is achieved through a careful attention to details: “[The realist] must present, moment by moment, concrete images drawn from a careful observation of how people behave, and he must render the connections between moments, exact gestures, facial expressions, or turns of speech that, within any given scene, move human beings from emotion to emotion, from one instant in time to the next” (24). Thus, successful realist fiction mirrors reality as a result of the writer’s scrupulous attention to detail and the real world.

One realist writer who does this especially well is Lucia Berlin. For example, in “Angel’s

Laundromat,” an autofiction short story that appears in A Manual for Cleaning Women, Berlin describes a woman’s trips to the laundromat. Berlin firmly grounds the events of the story in the physical world. The reader experiences the story through concrete imagery and sensory detail.

We can easily picture the “[s]uds overflowing onto the floor” and “the dirty mirror, between yellowing IRONING $150 A DUZ and orange Day-Glo serenity prayers” (3-4). We can hear the sound of the “sloshy water, rhythmic as ocean waves” (6). By embedding the story in physical details from the real world, Berlin gives the story the appearance of truth.

Berlin is attentive not only to imagery and details of the physical world, but also to human behavior, gestures, and speech. For example, Berlin describes the narrator’s sense of vulnerability when she catches another laundromat visitor, Tony, staring at her hands in the mirror: “There was panic in my eyes. I looked into my own eyes and back down at my hands.

Horrid age spots, two scars. Un-Indian, nervous, lonely hands. I could see children and men and gardens in my hands” (4). Here, the narrator’s actions and gestures feel true. It is clear the narrator feels self-conscious about her hands and all that she suspects they betray about who she is. Later in the story, the narrator holds hands with Tony and they share an intimate moment of

camaraderie: “A train passed. He nudged me: ‘Great big iron horse!’ and we started giggling all over again” (6). The reader does not have to be in on the joke to experience this lighthearted moment between the characters. Tony demonstrates his familiarity with his nudging gesture. The pair’s immediate “giggling” draws the reader into the companionable experience of an inside joke. The scene feels real and relatable.

Like Berlin, I utilize concrete imagery, sensory details, and careful rendering of human behavior in order to convince my audience that the characters and events in my stories are real.

For example, in my short story “Swing,” I ground the reader in the world of the story by attending to imagery and details. In a scene that occurs between the protagonist, Chase, and his next-door neighbor, Alice, I describe the “blinding sunlight, the hot Santa Ana winds blowing,” and the baby’s cry heard over “the rasp of a cheap television” (46). As Chase waits for Alice to open the front door, he observes the objects on her front porch: “[He] waited, noticing pairs of children’s shoes in various sizes piled in disarray beside the welcome mat. A bucket of kitty litter sat on one side of the door beside a carved pumpkin blackened with mold. The doorbell didn’t seem to be in order” (46). These sensory details and images are meant to evoke the real world and give the scene the appearance of truth.

Characterization is another craft aspect I carefully attended to in order to make my stories feel realistic. In “Interest and Truth,” John Gardner claims that characters must always be clear and explicable: “The writer’s characters must stand before us with a wonderful clarity, such continuous clarity that nothing they do strikes us as improbable behavior for just that character, even when the character’s action is, as sometimes happens, something that came as a surprise to the writer [her]self” (45). In preparing my stories for this collection, I have spent a significant portion of the revision process working to fully realize my characters. In early drafts, my

characters’ actions were often inexplicable, their motives inconsistent, and their emotions unconvincing. Often, throughout the writing process, my characters did surprise me with their actions. For example, I did not know when I began writing “Swing” that Chase had abused his wife. Similarly, in writing “Invasion of the Bees,” I initially did not know what drew Eugene to

Liz. I knew he was cheating, but I did not know why. Because I was discovering my characters as I wrote, by the time I had a complete draft, their actions were often contradictory or inexplicable. They were inconsistent.

In revising my characters to address these inconsistencies, I looked to writers whose characters I admire as models. I think, for example, of Adam Haslett and, in particular, his short story “You Are Not a Stranger Here.” Told from the third-person limited omniscient point of view, the story begins when Paul Lewis and his wife, Ellen, leave Pennsylvania to visit Scotland, where Ellen, a doctoral student, plans to use the library for research. Paul, the focal character in the story, was formerly a history professor but has quit working since his clinical depression returned in full force. From the beginning of the story, we learn that Paul plans to end his life by throwing himself off a cliff. Haslett convincingly renders Paul’s psychological conflict in this story, capturing the full complexity of his character. He gets inside Paul’s head to help the reader understand the emotions that drive Paul’s desire to end his life. For example, Haslett describes

Paul’s thoughts and feelings when Ellen suggests they go to the pub for lunch: “Paul hangs back, stilled by a dread of the immediate future, the dispiriting imitations he sees through the windows, a fear of what it will feel like to be in there, a sense that commitment to it could be a mistake, that perhaps they should keep going” (Haslett). In this split-second, Paul experiences a whole array of emotions that give the reader insight into his psychological state. Throughout the story,

Haslett develops Paul’s character further, showing how he feels he is a burden to Ellen. “He is

the chain and the weight,” Paul thinks. “No matter how she struggles, he will pull her under eventually” (Haslett).

Another dimension of Paul’s character is revealed when he meets Mrs. McSharon, a woman walking by the cliff who foils Paul’s first attempt on his life. At Mrs. McSharon’s home,

Paul meets Albert, a boy who is dying from a painful skin disease. Though Paul is horrified and sickened by Albert’s condition, at Mrs. McSharon’s request, he tells Albert stories from history:

“He opens the Plantagenet world up like a flower…. When his voice ceases, the room seems quieter than when he began, the boy’s eyes calmer” (Haslett). In this moment, Paul reclaims a small part of his former self and is able to provide Albert with a momentary distraction from his pain. By juxtaposing Paul’s suffering with Albert’s, Paul’s ultimate decision to carry out his suicide plan feels, by the final line of the story, inevitable. On his way to the cliff, he stops at the

McSharons to tell Albert one last story. Albert meets Paul’s gaze: “It is not thanks Paul sees in his eyes, but forgiveness” (Haslett). Only Albert, someone who, like Paul, is in daily pain, can understand and forgive him for his decision to end his own suffering. In this final moment, Paul stands before the reader in, as Gardner describes it, “wonderful clarity” (45).

A character that I have worked hard to fully realize is Eugene, the father in my story

“Invasion of the Bees.” In previous drafts, Eugene’s portion of this dual-perspective story was underdeveloped. It was unclear why Eugene was unhappy with his marriage and sought comfort in his relationship with Liz. Because these underlying motives were not clear, Eugene’s character felt flat and his actions inconsistent. In the draft included in this collection, I feel that Eugene’s character has begun to approach the clarity that I was aiming for. Eugene’s infidelity no longer feels inexplicable or purely motivated by sex. We learn that Eugene finds love and acceptance in

Liz:

It was more than animal desire. He needed the feelings of acceptance and

understanding that he found only in Liz’s presence. She made him feel wanted.

She knew him as Cara never had, as Cara had never shown any real desire to. He

had become addicted to the exhilaration of being known, a sensation that

obscured all others and dispossessed him of his faculties. (22)

Here, Eugene’s attraction to Liz is clearly elucidated. What he finds in his relationship with Liz reveals what he lacks in his marriage with Cara: the feeling of being wanted and the

“exhilaration of being known” (22).

Understanding what motivates Eugene’s affair with Liz helps to clarify the moment where Eugene takes out his frustration on his daughter, Miri. Although in prior drafts, Eugene’s actions here may have felt inconsistent with his character, in the current draft, his actions feel more appropriate. The stakes are higher for Eugene in this draft. We know that he wants and needs to see Liz and that he feels desperately guilty for how his betrayal affects Miri. Thus, when

Miri makes a fuss and unwittingly tries to throw a wrench in Eugene’s plans, it seems inevitable that Eugene’s reaction will be extreme: “He grabs her and spanks her like a little girl. He stops only when she tells him that she hates him. He feels relieved and remorseful, but more than that, he feels the way he felt on the rooftop, surrounded by the bees. When he might have jumped or he might have been stung. He feels he has never had less to lose” (25). Eugene’s array of emotions in this moment reveals his emotional conflict. He is not a terrible father, but in this moment, he has done a terrible thing. He feels sorry but at the same time relieved because he believes his actions have lowered him in Miri’s eyes. He has “less to lose” if she no longer idolizes him (25). In this moment, we see Eugene’s character clearly.

“Swing” is another story in which I worked especially hard on characterization. As

Gardner urges, in this story I was concerned with realistically portraying human behavior and with “render[ing] the connections between moments, exact gestures, facial expressions, or turns of speech that … move human beings from emotion to emotion” (24). For example, I depicted

Chase and Alice’s shifting emotions during their conversation on the porch using a combination of gestures, facial expressions, and dialogue. After Alice reveals that Chase’s wife, Susie, gave her their leather sectional when she moved out, Chase tells her that she may keep the sectional,

“though she hadn’t offered to give it back” (48). Alice’s news about the sectional has caught

Chase off-guard. His automatic reaction is generous but feels awkward since Alice already has the sectional and does not seem to have any intention of returning it. When Chase clears his throat and turns to leave, Alice stops him in his tracks and explains that she knows he hit Susie:

“She came to me after you hit her,” Alice said, stopping Chase in his tracks. She

narrowed her eyes at him then shrugged. “You probably already knew that.”

Chase looked down at his feet, at his socks in his slip-on sandals. He

chewed his lip. “I didn’t know,” he admitted. (48)

In this passage, we see Alice letting Chase know where they stand: she knows what he has done and holds him accountable for his actions. Her words and facial expression arrest Chase mid-step and force him to face the reality of the situation. He realizes he did not even know that Susie communicated with Alice following the incident. His gestures reveal his discomfort at this revelation. He looks down at his feet and chews his lip before finally replying. He is forced to admit that he didn’t know Susie had come to Alice, an admission that serves to drive home the implicit guilt he feels. Thus, by including specific details and allowing my characters to react

naturally to one another play-by-play, I develop a sense of realism in this scene and throughout the rest of the story.

Finally, subtext is a major craft aspect of realism I utilized throughout my stories in this collection. Charles Baxter defines subtext as “those elements that propel readers beyond the plot of a novel or short story into the realm of what haunts the imagination: the implied, the half- visible, and the unspoken” (The Art of Subtext 3). Through subtle intimation and purposeful omission, among other craft strategies, a writer may provide glimpses at what lies below the surface of the story—the submerged portion of Hemingway’s iceberg or, as Baxter puts it, that

“subterranean realm with its overcharged psychological materials [which] is often designated as the subtext of a story” (3). Baxter identifies a number of different methods of using subtext to reveal the true pulse of a story. One that I have found useful in my own writing is that of utilizing a present-time narrative to reveal past traumas that continue to haunt the lives of my characters. As Baxter describes it, “You put in the foreground, the staging area, the story that is going on now. This story gradually reveals what has happened in the past, where the chronic tensions are, and whose echoes are still audible” (26).

One writer who uses this strategy is Alice Munro. For example, in her short story

“Vandals,” Munro uses subtext in a complex interweaving between the past and present narratives to reveal the trauma and guilt that haunts the characters. The story opens in the present-time narrative, where Bea Doud composes a letter following the death of her partner,

Ladner. Addressed to Liza, a girl who lived across the road from the couple, the letter alludes to events in Bea’s and Liza’s shared past. Through subtle phrasing in this present-time narrative,

Munro suggests Bea is still haunted by Ladner’s presence: “I still have the feeling—when I awake—that he is in the next room…” (264). Despite her apparent grief over Ladner’s death,

Bea reflects that what others have seen as her “slow decline” has actually been “like a convalescence” (264). This subtle phrasing early in the story begins to hint at the fact that Bea was a victim of Ladner’s controlling and critical personality. Now that Ladner is gone, Bea has the chance to recover from the abusive relationship and to make reparations for her complicit role in extending the abuse to Liza. In this way, the subtextual clues in the present-time narrative touch back to the story in the past, where the conflict of the story is rooted.

I make a similar move in my short story “Apart From You.” This epistolary story places the protagonist Leanne’s tentative love affair in the foreground of the story. However, the weight of the conflict lies in the events of the woman’s past, namely, the traumatic experience of witnessing her father in an act of intimacy with Maria, a family friend. The memory of her father’s extramarital affair influences Leanne’s actions in the present and thwarts her ability to build trust and lasting relationships with men. I include suggestions from the beginning of the story to direct the reader’s attention toward this underlying narrative. Leanne opens her letter to her lover, Will, by acknowledging she owes him an explanation. She admits that she probably overreacted to his unaccounted-for absence the previous weekend and confesses that she has always had trouble trusting people (29). This admission, which appears in the first page of the story, prompts the reader to consider why Leanne has difficulty trusting people. Leanne goes on to explain to Will that she actively tries not to become involved with men who remind her of her father in any way. She admits she hesitated to give in to her attraction to Will because when they first met, he was “wearing a black leather jacket, oversized, well-worn, and too similar to the one

[her] father always used to wear” (29). These subtle details raise questions about why Leanne has an aversion to men like her father. What happened to prompt her aversion? What does she believe about who her father is? Is her father still involved in her life and, if not, why? Through

flashbacks and memories of the past, these questions are answered over the course of the story.

Ultimately, it is the memory of her father’s betrayal that causes Leanne to mistrust Will—and men, in general—and ultimately sabotage their relationship. The subtext of Leanne’s letter reveals her internal conflict about her father. Although the story of Leanne and Will’s relationship lies in the present-time foreground of the story, the events of the past that shape

Leanne’s perception of her father carry the true weight of the story.

Magical Realism

Although the majority of the stories in my collection are grounded in the real world, two of the flash fictions borrow elements of magical realism. The decision to utilize the tools of this genre arose organically during the drafting process. The shift served to enliven and refresh plots that risked seeming overdone or trite. As Charles Baxter observes in his chapter on “On

Defamiliarization” in Burning Down the House, “The truth can get dull. It may fall into a nonnarratable condition. There is an odd, stranger-at-the-funeral sensation in the face of art that is truthful but too familiar, where the author is deeply moved, but no one else is” (28). In order to avoid this dullness and lack of pathos, Baxter suggests defamiliarization, “a technique for finding a certain kind of detail that resists the fitting of the object into a silhouette, that is, into a ready- made symbolization…. The familiar gives way, not to the weird, but to the experience of a truth caught in mid-air” (33-4). Defamiliarization is a tool magical realists use to wrench familiar ideas from their normal contexts and provide new insight.

In her ekphrastic flash fiction collection Ghostographs, Maria Romasco Moore utilizes defamiliarization and magical realism to revitalize her exploration of truth. In “Tess,” Romasco

Moore describes a girl who has acquired a supernatural ability to glow like a lamp: “They always

said, Let the light of the Lord shine through you, but when she did just that they couldn’t take it.”

Romasco Moore engages the reader in a willing suspension of disbelief by including elements of realism that ground the story in a physical world. For example, the narrator describes how it

“hurt our eyes to look straight at her” and how, “if you held your own hand over her hand, you could see all the muscles and veins and bones and the old rose thorn lodged under your left thumbnail” (19). These concrete images and sensory details feel realistic and help make it possible for the reader to accept the magical elements of the story. Romasco Moore also suspends disbelief by showing that the characters accept Tess’s magical ability as real and have to come up with practical, real-world solutions to deal with the “problem.” For example,

Romasco Moore writes, “At [Tess’s] birthday party that year, we had to cover her with a tablecloth…. They tried immersing her in the river at midnight, rubbing her skin with coal from a mine disaster, locking her in a lightless room for hours, but she shone on despite their efforts”

(19). The townspeople’s reactions to Tess’s condition seem reasonable and realistic, which

“normalizes the weirdness,” as Benjamin Percy puts it in “Making the Extraordinary Ordinary”

(71).

Ultimately, Romasco Moore’s use of defamiliarization in this flash fiction allows her to reveal truth in a surprising way. As in Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “A Very Old Man with

Enormous Wings,” this story speculates about how people might react in an encounter with the divine. The townspeople in Moore’s story view Tess’s divine ability not as a blessing or a sign of good fortune, but as a source of resentment: “We all hated her, how smug she got in a darkened room” (19). They see Tess’s ability as an inconvenience, do all they can to snuff out her light, and are ultimately relieved when Tess “switche[s] off of her own accord one morning” (19).

Through defamiliarization, Romasco Moore crafts a story that transports the reader into the realm of magical realism, though the truths the story ponders are real and familiar.

Another author who utilizes defamiliarization is Kevin Brockmeier in his short story

“The Ceiling.” In this speculative fiction, an object appears in the sky around the time that the narrator begins to suspect his wife, Melissa, is having an affair. The object, which comes to be known as “‘the ceiling,’” looms ominously overhead and descends slowly but steadily as the narrator’s marriage falls apart (109). In the final scene, the narrator lies on the ground next to

Melissa and her lover, the ceiling pressing down on them. He reaches over and gives his wife’s hand a desperate squeeze. The final line of the story follows: “I was waiting to feel her return my touch, and I felt at that moment, felt with all my heart, that I could wait the whole life of the world for such a thing, until the earth and the sky met and locked and the distance between them closed forever” (120). By utilizing the image of the ceiling to represent the impending doom of the relationship in this story, Brockmeier defamiliarizes the tired narrative of a marriage gone wrong due to an extramarital affair.

I make a similar move in two of my flash fictions. In “Afterwards She Counts the

Money,” a sex worker who dreams of another life gets sucked down a shower drain and washes up on the beach the next day. The story centers on a character who is tired of her present circumstances and desires but cannot seem to attain a way out. This plotline is familiar, perhaps tired. To avoid writing a trite, overdone story, I defamiliarized this narrative by incorporating elements of magical realism.

In the beginning of the story, the nameless woman is seen “straddl[ing] [a] beach chair in the dark” as she counts the money she just earned. Early in the story, I ground the reader in a real, physical world through concrete imagery and sensory details. We hear the waves as they

“slap the shore” and feel the bills, “worn and grimy with fingerprints” as they stick to the woman’s hands (69). As the woman showers beneath the public faucet by the boardwalk, we feel the water’s cold spray and the weight of the woman’s hair, “now soaked and dripping” (69). As in realism, details play an important role in magical realism. Concrete images and sensory details help to prepare the reader for the surreal turn the story is about to take.

As the scene continues, I use figurative language to begin to blur the line between the real and the unreal. The woman continues to shower: “She washes the day away: the hours parading down the boardwalk pool at her ankles, the evening in the stranger’s bed gurgles down the drain”

(69). The metaphoric language invites the reader to literally picture the woman’s hours on the boardwalk “pool[ing] at her ankles” and her evening earning her money in the stranger’s bed

“gurg[ing] down the drain” (69). As a result, the reader is prepared to accept as real the moment where the woman herself is sucked down the drain:

She wishes she could wash away, and then she does. She disappears down the

drain. She swirls through the pipes beneath the sand and shoots into the ocean.

This is temporary, she reminds herself. The current takes her, forcing sharp

saltwater down her throat. Her lungs burn. She thrashes against the ocean, fights

to the surface, gulping for air. It will be over soon, she soothes. When the waves

press her down, she submits. (69)

This leap into the unreal allows me to take advantage of an extended metaphor where the ocean represents the hopelessness of the woman’s life. Although she desires change, she cannot break away from the current that holds her within her present circumstances. She submits to the waves, symbolizing her acceptance of her situation. Only then does she wash ashore, “naked and beaten,” to return to the seemingly endless cycle of her life (69).

In implementing defamiliarization and elements of magical realism, my intention was not to shock the reader or gain the reader’s interest simply by allowing the narrative to take weird, unexpected twists. Rather, my intention was to resist writing stories merely “in silhouette,” as

Baxter puts it (33). I wanted to write fully embodied narratives that adequately captured the complex emotions the essence of the stories evoked in me, emotions that perhaps would not have translated to a reader through the mode of literary realism. Defamiliarizing the narrative and utilizing elements of magical realism allowed me to both capture these emotions and access, in

Benjamin Percy’s words, “truths that might otherwise [have been] unavailable” to me had I remained tied to realism (71).

Next Steps

In the future, I would like to write additional short stories that, along with the four here, could complete a full collection. I would also be interested in pursuing a flash fiction project with more stories set on the beach. Although I consider myself a fundamentally realist writer, I have discovered that magical realism offers unique creative opportunities that I am excited to explore in future projects.

I plan to pursue publication of my work in literary journals I admire. One such journal is

The Kenyon Review. I particularly admire The Kenyon Review for its longevity and for the consistently high caliber of writing they publish. Since its founding in 1939, the journal has published work by renowned authors such as Flannery O’Connor, Joyce Carol Oates, and Louise

Erdrich. It is my dream to have my own work published alongside that of such incredible writers.

In addition to regular short story submissions, The Kenyon Review hosts an annual short fiction contest accepting submissions of short stories under 1,200 words from writers who have not yet

published a book of fiction. I plan to polish and submit one of my flash fiction pieces to this contest.

Another place where I intend to seek publication for my flash fiction is the online literary magazine, Smokelong Quarterly. Founded in 2003, the quarterly magazine is purely devoted to flash fiction up to 1,000 words in length. I am an avid reader of this magazine and appreciate the attention to language and plot that the stories they publish demonstrate. I believe my style fits well with the magazine’s aesthetic, and I would be proud to see my work in their archives.

Upon completion of my master’s degree, I intend to seek further artistic development at

University of Washington’s Master of Fine Arts Program. The program will grant me additional time and an artistic community in which to work on my craft and complete a book-length manuscript. I intend to use my time in the program to continue to grow and evolve as an artist, develop a stronger command of craft, and hone my unique voice and style.

CHAPTER II

SHORT STORIES

Invasion of the Bees

The bees arrive on a spring day. Their arrival is signaled at first by a self-conscious silence—absent the snap of jumping grasshoppers and the coo of mourning doves—and by a stillness, too, as if the sap has ceased to bubble from the heartwood of the eucalyptus trees. The bees arrive with a muffled hum—faint and ominous, like an argument heard through a bedroom door. The hum becomes a roar.

Miri is alone in the front yard, poking a stick at spiders in the dried-up bird bath, and the sun is in her eyes. She’s only been back in Del Rio for a few hours, and already there is dirt underneath her nails.

“Get some fresh air,” her mother had said earlier, shooing her out of the house. Miri had been glad for the excuse. The house, dusty and sparsely furnished, no longer felt like the home they’d once lived in. For a while, Miri lost herself in the sagebrush that grows at the edge of the property, chasing a wild orange tabby that has lived there for as long as she can remember. After a while, she had given up and returned to the yard where she rediscovered the spiders that nest in the bird bath.

Before long, the vast shadow of the house creeps behind her on the yellow lawn. Since

Miri and her parents, Cara and Eugene, moved away, the desert has begun to reclaim the land.

The grass appears to have receded more and more every time they make a trip back to the large stucco house. The family moved a year ago to Pleasanton, just a few towns over, to be closer to

Eugene’s workplace. However, they kept the house in Del Rio as a vacation home, mainly because of its convenient proximity to the lake, Lake Amistad, just thirty minutes away.

Miri spent most of her life in this place, so of course she notices the silence. It is unsettling for different reasons today, though. It means her father has stopped mowing the back lawn but he couldn’t possibly have done the whole thing yet, so what are he and Mom doing inside the house? Once, she barged into her parents’ room unannounced in the middle of one of their arguments. Her father had immediately exited, jaw set, and her mother had assured Miri that everything was okay. Since then, Miri has felt it her duty to intervene whenever her parents are fighting. They’ve started lowering their voices, so Miri has to be more vigilant. She tries not to leave them alone together. Now, she is about to go check on them when the silence fills with an electric hum and a black cloud blots out the sun.

The swarm is the size of a giant’s fist, a fizzing mass of angry bodies churning in synchrony. Miri screams loud enough that her parents hear her from inside the house. They scramble out the front door. From the safety of the front porch, they gape at the sky. The black swarm glistens against a backdrop of deep Texas blue. Miri whimpers in her mother’s arms, and the bees hover above the roof, then, as if on cue, begin to funnel into a crack in the eaves.

“Son of a gun,” Eugene says. Despite the blue bandana he has tied around his forehead, a bead of sweat still threatens to trickle into his eye.

“Calm down,” Cara shushes. Miri doesn’t understand why her parents do not seem more upset. She’s overheard stories about Africanized bees, also known as killer bees, a hybrid species more aggressive than your typical honey bee. They’ve been known to kill dogs, cattle, even people. Yet for several full minutes, Miri’s parents simply watch as the mass writhes and

contorts on the rooftop. Miri notices the tight line of her mother’s mouth and the odd guilty glint in her father’s eyes, as if he has seen something he should not have seen.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Eugene leads the way to the attic. He pulls on the string that hangs from the ceiling, and a ladder drops. When no bees emerge from the opening, he climbs up into the narrow space. A smell of cedar and rat permeates the stuffy air. The darkness emits a low buzzing. “Careful, Daddy,” Miri cries from below.

“Gene, don’t do anything stupid,” adds Cara. She is digging through her weekend bag to locate the epi pen she always keeps close at hand. Miri helps with the search, scattering the contents of her mother’s cosmetic case onto the floor. Her father is fatally allergic to bees, but

Miri knows that nothing she or her mother can say will persuade him to keep his distance.

Eugene switches on the flashlight he left at the entrance. The attic still contains remnants of their former life: boxes of baby clothes, the crib from when Miri was little, stacks of forgotten photo albums and home video tapes. Cara’s old paintings and art supplies gather cobwebs in one corner. Approaching the far wall where the ceiling is lowest, Eugene crouches to keep from hitting his head. He inspects the walls, moving boxes as needed. He leans close to the unfinished plywood and listens carefully. “They’re stuck in the insulation space,” he announces. “All we have to do is seal up the hole.” He clambers down the ladder, where Miri and Cara wait. Cara smiles thinly at him. The epi pen is tucked in her back pocket.

That night, they sit on towels spread on the floor of the empty breakfast nook and eat rice, boiled corn, and fried fish. While her parents discuss what to do about the bees, Miri rakes her fork through the fish, checking for the hair-like bones that hide in the white flesh. She listens intently to her parents’ conversation without appearing to.

“Now we can’t sell it,” her mother says. For months, Miri has overheard her parents arguing about the fate of the old house. Cara has begged her husband to put it on the market ever since they moved. She has told him how she dreads the trips back to their former home. Once, when he asked her why, she replied tearfully how she hated sleeping on the floor of their old bedroom, hated seeing the ugly brake marks on the driveway, hated that “disgusting” tomcat that haunted the sage, recklessly impregnating the female cats in the area.

Now as then, Miri sits quietly, a bad taste in the back of her throat.

“It won’t be hard to get rid of them,” Eugene is saying. He is talking about the bees. “I’ll get something to seal it up when the stores open in the morning.”

Cara raises her eyebrows. “You’re going to seal it while they’re still in there?”

“Exactly,” he says. The word hangs in the air, and Miri imagines how it would burst like a firecracker if she were to leave the room.

Cara gets up and clears the paper plates and goes outside to hose off the dusty porch.

Lightning bugs blink in the gathering darkness. Miri’s father rises from the floor stiffly and scuds in his slippers off to the garage to polish the boat. If all goes well with the bees in the morning, he will likely go fishing in the afternoon.

That night, Miri lies awake for a long time. Mice scratch around in the wall behind her bed. She thinks she hears a bee buzzing in her room, but when she gets up to investigate, she discovers it is only a horsefly stuck behind the window screen.

* * *

The sun beats down overhead as Eugene climbs up the ladder set in the flower bed by the front door. Now he is off balance, teetering, his legs braced between a dormer window and the top of the ladder. He has some heated tar in a tray and a brush that he is using to paint the tar

over the crack in the eave. Despite the already hot morning, he wears a white long sleeve sweat shirt, jeans, and long socks inside his shoes. A handful of bees circle lazily around him.

As soon as he woke that morning, he had gotten ready and taken the truck out to the

Home Depot in Uvalde. The articles he had consulted about bee invasions recommended that poison or smoke should be used to flush the bees out of the space. Then, tar or glue should be applied to any openings to prevent reentry. The first step seemed unnecessary to Eugene. The bees would die up there anyway, sealed as they would be without food or water. So he had purchased some tar, a brush, some plywood, wood glue, and a few rolls of duct tape. On the way back home, he had stopped at a gas station and used the pay phone to call Liz at work. Liz’s husband has been getting suspicious of them, so they’ve agreed not to use their cell phones when they call each other anymore.

He hadn’t told her about the bees.

“Come back. I miss you.” Her voice crackled through the phone. It was as if she were there in the gas station with him. He could almost feel her warm breath by his face. “Omar is taking the boys to their soccer game tonight. It’s an hour away. You could come over.”

Eugene had hesitated. This affair has gone on longer than he ever intended. The relationship with Liz had begun innocently enough, with casual drinks and conversation after work. Immediately, he had noticed how easy it was to talk to Liz. She listened. She made Eugene feel like his thoughts and opinions mattered. He had discovered that with her, he could share things about himself he had never voiced to anyone, not even Cara. To Liz, he had admitted how inadequate he felt, how no matter what he did, he felt he could never be good enough for his wife.

Liz had nodded and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “I totally understand how you feel,” she said, studying the rough surface of the table between them. “It’s hard feeling like no one appreciates you.” Eugene had looked at her then and allowed himself to take her in fully for the first time. He could not help but notice her body, the subtle, suggestive curves that her loose hospital scrubs could not quite conceal. Her hazel eyes were full of questions, and Eugene found he wanted to tell her everything he knew about himself. When Liz invited him home with her, he hadn’t for a moment considered refusing.

Later, he would tell himself that he wouldn’t have gone that first time if he’d known that

Liz’s husband and boys were away. The truth was, he hadn’t thought twice about being with Liz.

He hadn’t thought at all. In the five months following that first encounter, he had lived between periods of remorse and of stolen ecstasy in the safe, comforting space of Liz’s guest bedroom. It was more than animal desire. He needed the feeling of understanding that he found only in Liz’s presence. She made him feel wanted. She knew him as Cara never had, as Cara had never shown any real desire to. He had become addicted to the exhilaration of being known, a sensation that obscured all others and dispossessed him of his faculties. The temptation—her yielding body, the adrenaline pumping through his veins—was simply too hard to resist.

Even then, in the gas station, as Liz waited expectantly on the other end of the line,

Eugene had felt the thrill of desire for her, for her body, for the feelings of acceptance that came with their intimacy. He had pressed down the sensation of guilt that had arisen in his chest. He had replied that of course he would meet her. He would tell Cara that they had an emergency at work—that one of the other doctors needs him to cover their shift. He could deal with the bees and still make the three-hour drive back home in time to meet with Liz.

Now, swaying on the rooftop, he looks out over the property. From this height, he can see across the brush to the pasture where the neighbors keep their goats. If he looks straight down, he can see the paved walkway by the front door. A fall from this height would certainly kill him.

With his bare hand, he swats a bee that has landed on his shoulder. Never has he felt so alive.

When the hole is sealed, he clambers down the ladder. Miri waits at the bottom, her face breaking into a grin. “You did it!” she cries, giving him a hug. She barely comes up to his waist.

She is a good girl, and they are close. They have spent endless hours together outdoors, capturing and preserving a whole menagerie of insects in resin. Miri has learned to appreciate the translucent wax on a beetle’s back, the intricate vein patterns on a moth’s wing. He has observed her handling the fragile specimens carefully the way he taught her, holding them close to her face to admire each small detail. He hates himself. What has she done to deserve his betrayal?

He thinks he should tell Liz he doesn’t want to meet. He should tell her he never wants to see her again. If only he could keep his head clear for long enough, perhaps he could follow through. But his memories of Liz are unrelenting. How can he let her go?

When Eugene tells his family about the “emergency” at work, Miri expresses her disappointment that they will not be able to go fishing this trip. Eugene feels bad about letting her down but also angry. Since when does she enjoy fishing? Why does she have to make things more difficult than they already are? In the car on the way back to Pleasanton, Cara suggests they’ll make it up to Miri by stopping in town on the way home to get a larger bicycle out of the storage unit, as Miri has outgrown her old one.

“We don’t have time for that,” Eugene protests. As if to emphasize his words, he presses down on the gas pedal, forcing the car to shift into a higher gear. Liz is waiting for him.

“You don’t need to be back until three, right?” Cara says. “Even if it takes a few minutes to find the bike, we’ll still have plenty of time.”

“I need to be there early. There’s some paperwork I have to get done.” Eugene adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. He feels guilty again, as if Cara has somehow discovered his plan.

She is always spoiling things.

“Oh.” Cara studies her husband, her brows furrowed. Eugene endures her scrutiny, hoping his face will not betray him. “Well, couldn’t you do it afterwards?” she says.

“No,” Eugene snaps, surprising himself with the sharp edge in his voice. It’s as if Cara doesn’t even hear him. He wonders if she ever truly has.

Cara looks as if she will put up a fight, but just then, Miri cuts in.

“Mom, never mind,” she says. “I don’t want the bike.”

“We don’t mind stopping for you,” Cara replies, staring at Eugene. “Do we, honey?”

“I really don’t want it,” Miri hisses.

“We’re getting the bike.”

“I don’t want it—”

Eugene throws up his hands. “Quiet when I’m driving!”

The car fills with a volatile silence.

“I wasn’t being loud,” Miri says. She catches Eugene’s attention in the rearview mirror and rolls her eyes.

“That’s it,” Eugene mutters. He turns on his hazard lights and pulls off to the side of the highway.

“Honey, stop,” Cara says, in a low tone.

“I have had it with the disrespect,” he says. He pops the driver’s side door and orders

Miri out of the car.

“You don’t talk to Daddy like that, you hear me?” he says. Miri crosses her arms and won’t look him in the eye. He grabs her and spanks her like a little girl. He stops only when she tells him that she hates him. He feels relieved and remorseful, but more than that, he feels the way he felt on the rooftop, surrounded by the bees. When he might have jumped or he might have been stung. He feels he has never had less to lose.

Miri cries for the rest of the trip, silent tears that barely have the chance to stream down her cheeks before she wipes them away. At first, as upset as he is, it’s easy for Eugene to ignore her. She knows better than to backtalk him. What kind of father would he be if he couldn’t command respect from his own daughter? However, by the time they exit off the highway toward home, Eugene has had a chance to cool off. He had overreacted, he knows. In his mind, he replays the scene on the side of the road again and again, his shame growing with each repetition. At last, they pull into the driveway. Cara escapes inside, dragging her bag behind her.

Eugene catches Miri’s arm before she can follow her mother. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” he says, trying to get her to look him in the eye. “Daddy was just upset.”

Briefly, Miri looks up, her face pinched into an accusatory expression. “Go away,” she says, her voice low.

Eugene releases his daughter and watches her run inside as the full impact of her words hits him. He should go after her. He should say whatever he has to say to make her understand that he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, that whatever happens between him and

Cara, that he will always love her the same. He can hear them talking inside now, Miri’s wounded girlish voice, Cara’s consoling tone. Eugene sighs. Liz would understand. She’s

waiting for him. Promising himself that he will fix things with Miri the next chance he gets, he jumps back into the car and drives away.

Years later, he will remember this as the moment he lost his daughter forever. When

Eugene returned that evening after his tryst with Liz, he had found Miri in her room reading a copy of Alice in Wonderland. “Let’s go outside and catch some moths. I just saw a couple imperials out on the porch. If we hurry, we may still get them.”

Miri had lowered her book, looked at a point behind Eugene, and shook her head. “No, thank you,” she replied.

“Please, honey,” Eugene had said. His voice shook. “I want to make it up to you.”

Miri had half-smiled, still not meeting his eyes. “I don’t want to.”

After that day, Miri seems to want nothing to do with Eugene. He notices she no longer jumps up to greet him when he comes home from work. She speaks to him when prompted but then only in brief, careful sentences. He feels the loss of her trust keenly.

After he and Cara finally split, Eugene gets half custody of Miri. She seems miserable whenever he is around. On her twelfth birthday, she sends him a letter explaining that she no longer wants to live with him. You make me sick, she wrote in fiercely slanted cursive. After that, he sees her just a few times a year on holidays. Eventually she refuses to see him at all. Eugene could have fought the decision in court, but his guilt compels him to honor his daughter’s wishes.

“She’s just angry,” Liz assures him. “She’s still your daughter. She’ll come around.” But

Miri never does.

* * *

The bees do not die in the insulation space. You cannot just seal a swarm of bees in the wall and expect the problem to go away, out of sight, out of mind. As an adult, Miri imagines the scene her mother encountered when she next returned by herself to check on the property. In her imaginings, Miri is somehow both her eleven-year-old self and her mother. She opens the door to a sight that at one time would have shocked them both. Bees, bees, everywhere. Crawling up and down the windows, hovering over the stairs, swarming on the ceiling. Bodies, antennae, legs, and wings litter every surface. Miri feels the conflict between two individual impulses: that of the mother, whose first reaction at one time would have been to slam the door on this chaos, and that of the daughter, whose reaction changes with each imagining. Somehow, a negotiation between the two impulses is met. Eventually, always, she enters. She surveys the damage without blinking. Bee-spackled walls, dead things. She steps boldly into the room, and dry bodies crunch beneath her weight. She feels like an intruder in her own home, a feeling that is somehow familiar.

However terrible the scene she views might be, she is curiously unaffected, powerful in her impassivity. She has learned to seal her feelings away, let them suffocate in some dark, cramped recess of her mind. Without them, nothing can hurt her. She is invincible. She hardly feels it when a bee alights on her arm. She barely feels the sting.

* * *

When her parents separate that summer, Miri blames herself. After the incident by the highway, she stopped intervening in her parents’ arguments, and she assumes it was because of her absence that their fighting became more frequent. It is the best sense she can make of it.

Long after her father has ceased to be a part of her life, she finds herself considering the bees. She imagines the swarm, how the scout bee must have buzzed into their yard, scorned the

mesquite trees and plywood shed. It returned to the swarm with its findings, was reabsorbed by the mass in seconds.

Despite moving out of Texas the first chance she got, Miri still finds herself mistaking black clouds or puffs of smoke for bee swarms. She is suspicious of men. She works as a nurse and keeps bees in a row of little boxes on a plot of land she bought herself. She supplies them with fragrant and colorful flowers. She enjoys the ritual of putting on her beekeeping suit—the helmet, the veil, the long socks, boots, and thick rubber gloves. Occasionally, a bee will find its way in via a loose zipper or a sagged sock. Miri will have to administer an epi pen to herself, having inherited her father’s allergy to bee stings. The offending bee inevitably dies after losing its stinger, and Miri always wonders, was it worth it?

She slides open the boxes and watches the insects crawl about, seemingly at random. She has studied them enough to know that every movement they make is calculated, an intricate dance. One by one, she fills the boxes with smoke.

Apart From You

Dear Will,

Now that I’ve had some time to think, I feel I owe you an explanation. Perhaps I overreacted. When you wouldn’t explain your whereabouts, I couldn’t help feeling betrayed. I thought you were just another lying cheat, and I’m still not convinced that isn’t the case. I’d like to be wrong. I’d like for us to have another chance.

Where did you go that weekend? Why won’t you just tell me? I can think of only one reason….

I’m sorry. It’s always been so difficult for me to trust people. I wish it weren’t so.

Allowing myself to open up to you went against all my better instincts. Remember when we first met? We were on the elevator, and all I could think about was how easy it was to talk to you and how sorry I was that you were wearing a black leather jacket, oversized, well-worn, and too similar to the one my father always used to wear. Despite my objections to the jacket, I could not help noticing you, how you held the door for me as I hurried across the lobby, how you told me I looked like a “woman on a mission,” this in a dead-serious tone of admiration, as if I were really important, really somebody. I thought what a shame it was about the jacket.

You see, my first and only requirement for the men I date has always been this: They must be nothing like my father. That means no black leather jackets or contact lenses. No doctors, no gardeners, no knife collectors. No men who drive gray Camrys or red trucks. No strong, silent types. No Filipinos. The men I date cannot like Star Trek or X-Men or Uma

Thurman. They must not enjoy fishing. They cannot be too attractive, charismatic, or clever for their own good.

As you can probably guess, this unspoken requirement of mine eliminates a substantial fraction of the population from my pool of potential partners. Over the years, a few men have stood out from the crowd. Yet, without fail, my relationships with these different men have ended in the same predictable way—with my discovery of some deeply problematic character flaw, such as a talent for sewing, an affinity for Bass Pro Shops, or a preference for steak cooked medium-rare. What would seem to be harmless attributes to most people have always appeared as red flags to me. I don’t ignore red flags, and I don’t form relationships with men who bear a resemblance to my father. Why play with fire when there’s always a chance of getting burned?

Given the limitations of my criteria, I’m sure it will make more sense to you why I have been alone for as long as I have. I’ll turn thirty-two next month, and I’m afraid I’m going to be alone forever. You’re gone. My mother and sister are so far away. My friends are busy with their own lives, families, careers. I try to keep myself busy. I am working hard to pay off my student loans, and I believe I’m up for a promotion. I’ve been reading a lot. Recently, I took up watercolor painting to help fill my free hours.

I will admit, I sometimes often feel lonely. There are mornings I wish for company at the breakfast table, nights I long for the comfort of another human body. I sometimes scroll my social media feeds with a growing sense of envy and despair as I realize all the experiences of life from which I am excluded as a single woman. But then again, aren’t these bouts of envy and loneliness a small price to pay for peace of mind? Unlike my girlfriends, I never have to worry about late-night phone calls to anonymous callers, unfamiliar perfumes, unexplained credit card

transactions, or suspicious internet browsing histories. I don’t have to worry that any mood swing or weight gain or new wrinkle will justify casual and complete betrayal.

* * *

The next time I saw you, I had just finished work for the day and was walking the six blocks to the parking garage by myself. Darkness had begun to gather in the streets and the wail of distant sirens added to the eerie whistle of the wind. I gripped my can of pepper spray in one hand and walked fast, wary of drunks and aggressive panhandlers. When you fell into step beside me, I raised the can instinctively. “Leanne, don’t shoot, it’s just me,” you said, shielding your eyes with one hand and sort of laughing at me, your blocky European teeth catching the glow of the yellow streetlight. I laughed too and gave you a playful shove. From then on, we always walked to our cars together. It helped that you never wore the leather jacket again after that first time.

You started bringing coffee to me on the fifth floor. My coworkers teased me about you, and I hated myself for blushing, for being susceptible to your easy charm. You were scrupulously attentive to my feelings and needs and that both delighted and upset me. It was like

I’d believed my whole life that the world was flat and now suddenly the world itself was determined to show me otherwise, slowly spinning to reveal all its contours and dimensions. I got caught up in the movement, the possibilities.

* * *

Over the course of the next few months, you and I became closer. I found excuses to go up to see you on the eleventh floor. We shared lunches and conversations. I usually preferred to just listen, my private thoughts neatly tucked away. However, one day I surprised myself by trying to explain to you how my father’s jacket smelled like Vaseline, old leather car seats, and

Irish Spring soap. I recalled how comforting that scent was to me as a young girl, noticeable whenever my father enclosed me in his arms or whenever I would lie with my head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heart, the rush of air in his lungs.

I had just begun to learn your scent (cotton, rye bread, a whisper of sweet sweat), how the pitch of your voice changes when you’re excited or nervous or hurt. “We are not dating,” I used to remind you constantly. The first time I said this, you seemed upset and confused, but after a few times of this happening, you figured out that I didn’t really want you to stay away.

I told you about the good times I remember with my father: fishing on the lake, growing watermelons in the garden, playing chess. I can never seem to come up with the words to describe my complicated feelings toward my father. There had been a time when he could do no wrong, when I would always take his side over my mother’s.

Once, my mother had scolded my father for letting me watch Predator with him while she was away. “This is rated R,” she said, waving the DVD like an accusation. “Leanne is nine.

What were you thinking?”

“She’s mature for her age,” my father had said with a shrug. “I don’t think it will bother her.”

My mother slammed the disk down on the coffee table. “That’s not the point! You’re ruining her innocence.”

It seemed like my parents had forgotten I was there. “It wasn’t scary,” I said, jumping to my father’s rescue. I liked that he treated me as a grown-up, not as a little kid who needed to be protected. “I’m not going to have bad dreams or anything, Mom. I promise.”

My mother shot my father one of her looks and stormed out of the room. My father had given me a grateful look. “You’re sure you won’t have bad dreams?”

“I’m sure,” I replied.

He smiled and pulled me onto his lap. “That’s my big girl.”

It had seemed to me that my father was brilliant. I believed he knew everything, that there was nothing he couldn’t or wouldn’t teach me. I could have spent hours just asking him questions. He taught me how to cast a fishing line, how to set the hook firmly in a fish’s jaw. He taught me how to tell when a watermelon was ripe and explained the rules of chess. He quizzed me on my times tables until I could have said them in my sleep. When I was little, he would let me sit with him in the driver’s seat, controlling the gas while I took the wheel.

Whenever we were in public, I would simply watch my father in awe. I could see that people admired him. He was quick-witted and charming, always ready with a clever or funny response. I was proud to be his daughter. I wanted to be just like him.

Then he’d turned out not to be the person I’d thought he was, or at least, not always the person I thought he was. But for some reason, I was capable of keeping those two different identities separate in my head. I could love and admire the father I’d grown up idolizing, and I could shrink from the stranger who sometimes took his place. For some reason, these two identities never seemed to resolve into one distinctly comprehensible person.

One night over dinner at your place, you surprised me by offering details about your parents. As you poured steaming pasta into a colander in the sink, you explained how you only recently reacquired a taste for spaghetti. “I ate it all the time as a kid because it was one of the only things I knew how to make. Dad was useless in the kitchen, and Mom was gone a lot.” I was listening carefully. We had never talked about your parents before.

“They stayed together until I left for college, but they might as well have separated before then for all the time they spent apart,” you said. I watched as you used a fork to free the last few noodles that clung to the bottom of the pot. “I learned later Mom was seeing some guy she met at her gym. His wife was an elementary school teacher.” You were speaking louder and faster than you normally did, posturing a composure that wasn’t reflected in the faltering tone of your voice. I recognized that pain and knew from experience that no words could make it go away.

But I wanted to comfort us both, and we spent that night in your bed learning how.

Afterwards, we sorted out our secrets, the hidden things about ourselves that this new intimacy had jarred loose. You said your biggest weakness was impulsivity—snap judgments, thoughtless decisions, exorbitant purchases. I told you mine was eavesdropping. Your deepest fear was of being alone, and mine was of being left.

You would probably say that I’m the one who left you. You have to understand I felt I had no other choice.

* * *

My father’s girlfriend had sea green eyes and an accent whose origin I could never quite place. The only way I know how to describe it is that she seemed to cheat vowels of their full sound. She emphasized words in all the wrong places. While the accent would have been unpleasant coming from any other person, from her, it sounded natural. She had a full-bodied voice that seemed to transform anything she said into a kind of song. I loved to listen to her.

Her name was Maria. She was a scrub tech at the hospital where my father worked. Her husband worked for a roofing company. They had two sons close to my age, Peter and Miguel,

whom I met at a hospital barbecue. Peter and I were ten, Miguel was twelve. We were the only kids there, so circumstances forced us together when we probably wouldn’t have been friends otherwise. We played tag and then built a fort in the grove behind the park. Being homeschooled and shy, I didn’t have many friends, so it stands out in my memory how much I enjoyed that day.

Later, when I told my parents, they made plans to invite Peter and Miguel out to the house sometime. We became fast friends that summer.

Maria was always nice to me when I came over to her house to play with the boys. She would often give us a tasty little snack to eat after we played. Usually, when Peter, Miguel, and I came in from the backyard, we’d find her curled up on the sofa with a book, reading while she absently stroked the family cat, whose name was Mittens. The boys called Maria by her first name, and when I asked why, Miguel explained that Maria was their stepmother, that their birth mother had died, and that their father had married Maria a few years ago. Later, I talked to my parents about what I had learned, and it struck me how abruptly my mother changed the subject, how quickly my father got up and left the room.

That summer my life changed forever. The fateful day dawned painfully bright and beautiful. It had rained the night before. Dew glistened on the lawn outside my bedroom window. I thought it would be a perfect day to make mud pies and hoped I could convince my mother to let the boys come over. But my mother’s car wasn’t in the garage. She had left a note explaining she was out running errands. I ate a slice of toast and then went outside to play, climbing up to the top of the treehouse my father had built in the big oak. From that height, I had a clear view of the back yard and partially into the front, so I immediately noticed Maria’s white suburban parked in the driveway. I thought my mother must have foreseen my wish to have the boys over to play, and I climbed down the ladder and skipped toward the vehicle. As I got closer,

I saw the engine was running but no one was in the front seat. By some internal instinct, I slowed my pace to a walk, conscious of the sound my steps made in the wet gravel. Now I realized there were two people standing on the opposite side of the car, their presence betrayed by two sets of shoes visible near the tires. It was Maria and my father. I recognized their shoes and their voices, my father’s gentle murmur, Maria’s entrancing purr, their collective heavy panting.

I was afraid to be caught spying, but I felt compelled to see this illicit thing, sex, which was by then on my radar but had not yet been explained to me. I took cover in the bushes that grew along the fence and from there edged forward until I had a view of the opposite side of the driveway. My father and Maria were pressed up against the side of the car, their bodies facing one another. His hands were up the front of her dress, while hers were clasped around his lower back, pulling his body into hers. She was moaning deeply, her voice sounding beautiful as always but also somehow sad. I staggered back and retreated as fast as I could. I went in the back door and into my bedroom where I lay speechless on my bed, unable to process what I had seen.

Sometime later, I heard my father’s heavy step in the hall and the sound of the shower running. Not long afterward, my mother returned, calling me from the kitchen to come help bring the groceries in from the car. “What’s wrong?” she said when I finally came out of my room. I couldn’t tell her. I said I was fine, that nothing was wrong.

* * *

Three months after that first night we shared, you blew off my plans to spend time together, giving no explanation beyond that you were “exhausted” and needed some time to yourself. You didn’t contact me for days.

I’m ashamed to think of how pathetic I became. I made an obsessive list of all the possible things I might have done to drive you away. I spent that Saturday in bed crying because

I was sure you were cheating on me. “We weren’t dating,” I told myself, but that didn’t sound true even to me anymore.

* * *

Two months after the event I witnessed between my father and Maria, my mother caught on to the affair. She discovered several compromising voicemails Maria had left on my father’s phone and that he was careless enough not to delete. That night, I overheard my parents arguing in their bedroom. We had a small house and sound carried easily through the thin layer of insulation. My room shared a wall with my parents’ closet, so I pressed close to it and listened.

“I’m so mad at you,” my mother was saying. Her voice broke between each word. I realized she was crying. My father said several words in a low imperceptible voice while my mother gasped for breath between fits of heavy sobbing. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

I had never heard my mother that upset. I couldn’t stand the sound of them fighting like that, and I escaped beneath my covers, my pillow pressed tightly over my head. This was a stance I would assume often in the coming months as my parents’ marriage fell apart. I would wonder, would it have hurt my mother less if I’d told her what I’d seen? Was there anything I could have done to prevent this? I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was somehow all my fault—that if I just hadn’t climbed up in the treehouse that day, that if I hadn’t made friends with

Peter and Miguel, maybe then none of this would have happened.

* * *

The Monday after your weekend of silence, you brought me coffee like you always do, as if nothing in the world were wrong. Despite feeling myself coming unhinged, I managed not to go up to the eleventh floor and confront you, humiliate you in front of your friends. It was all I could do to save my questions until dinner that night.

Only then did I demand an explanation. “Where were you? What did you do all weekend?”

You kept laying plates out on the table and adjusting the forks and knives. “You wouldn’t understand,” you said at last.

“What wouldn’t I understand?” I said. “Talk to me.”

You just stood there, tight-lipped, arms crossed over your chest. You looked up from the table and met my eyes, your expression pleading me to just let this go.

“Why won’t you tell me?” My voice broke. Your refusal to offer any explanation seemed to confirm all my suspicions.

“After all this, you still don’t trust me,” you said, an infuriating note of pity in your voice.

“Let’s talk when we’ve both had a chance to cool off.”

After you left my apartment that night, I lost my head for a while. I blocked your number.

I sent you that long, poorly punctuated email. I told you that you were as bad as my father, that all men are the same, and that I was done, done, DONE. In my anger, I donated the clothes you left at my apartment. I built a pyre in my underused fireplace where I burned every frivolous little note you sent me. I forgot to open the flue and set off the fire alarm. Since then, my apartment has had a faint scent of smoke, no matter what I do to remove it. It is as if the memory of you has permanently inhabited the space.

I’ve had some time to cool off and think since then. I have been so desperate for company that I adopted a cat, name pending. He’s a proper stray and hasn’t come out from under my bed since I brought him home. I called my mom and sister, just for the comfort of hearing their voices. You know, they never even knew about you? I was afraid of getting their hopes up, so I

never told them about our relationship. Now, even though I need someone to talk to, I don’t feel like I can tell them about you since it feels like things are over.

I won’t apologize for what I said and did in anger. My words and actions were true to what I felt at that time, and I don’t regret them. But I am sorry for being so hasty. I wish I had it in me to give us another chance….

Something happened since I started writing this letter. A few days ago, I looked my old friend Peter up. We’ve kept up a casual friendship over the years, though it has been ages since we last spoke. He is an architect now and lives with his partner in the suburbs on the West side. I called him, and once he realized who I was, he seemed genuinely excited to hear from me. We met up for lunch this past weekend.

Even though it had been years since Peter and I last spoke in person, it felt as if no time had gone by. Our conversation naturally led to our shared past, the events that had marked us both. Peter shared that Maria and his father celebrated their twenty-fifth anniversary this year. It was clear from Peter’s tone of voice how he feels about his parents’ reconciliation. He and

Miguel never truly forgave Maria. They keep their distance from her.

When Peter asked how I was doing, of course I broke down talking about you. Peter held me and patted my back and encouraged me to let it all out. When I finally quieted, he told me he thought I should give you a chance. “He was gone one weekend. You have to admit, you’ve been acting a little like a paranoid psycho.” Peter was trying to make me laugh, but I wondered what he’d think if he knew how I’d burned up your things. (I wonder what you think, too.) “But seriously though,” Peter said after a few moments, “Cut the guy a break. There’s probably a perfectly simple explanation.”

“But he won’t tell me,” I protested. “I’d be stupid to give him another chance.”

Peter shrugged and studied his hands. “You know,” he said, selecting his words. “I get why you’re being so cautious. You’re afraid of getting hurt.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think your dad was really as bad as you remember him.”

I shook my head at the ludicrousness of his statement. “How would you know?” I demanded. My father is a liar and a cheater. He destroyed his own marriage, chose a cheap love affair over his own family. My father is objectively bad. There is no argument there.

Peter waved his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m not saying he didn’t make a mistake. A big one. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by shutting all men out just because your father messed up. Maybe there was more to the story. Have you ever talked to him about it—”

I cut Peter off before he was done speaking. “Absolutely not,” I said. “I was old enough to refuse to see him by the time they got divorced. I haven’t spoken to him since I was ten. I have no interest in hearing his version of events.”

Peter nodded. “Trust me, I get it. For years, I hated your dad too. Things had just started to feel normal again after Mom’s death, and then he came along and messed everything up. You know he came back to town and visited us a few years later?”

Stunned, I shook my head no.

“He wanted to apologize to my father in person, and my father agreed to meet. I don’t know exactly what they said, but I know my father has forgiven him based on that conversation.

Afterwards, we all went out to dinner, except for Maria. She made excuses to be elsewhere, of course. Dinner was incredibly awkward, but your dad seemed to be making the best of it he could. He told jokes and gave me and Miguel advice about college. We were both in high school

by then. He seemed like a guy who had made a terrible mistake and was genuinely sorry for it.

He seemed to be doing all he could think of to make amends.” Peter paused. “Are you okay?”

I couldn’t respond. I felt hot tears slipping down my cheeks. I waved Peter’s concern away and fled to my car where I crumpled up in the seat and sobbed. I kept picturing my father in all his different iterations—as a companion and co-conspirator, as a teacher, as my mother’s husband, as a liar and a cheater. Then I pictured the version of my father that Peter had described—remorseful, penitent, full of regret. Taken together, these images of my father don’t add up to the monster I have been convinced he was for so long. They conflict entirely with the story I’ve been telling myself for years.

Since I got home from lunch, I’ve just been sitting here, ruminating. I’ve been thinking, what if my father isn’t as bad as I believed him to be? What if the resentment I’ve harbored against him for so long is hurting me more than helping me? Maybe people change, even after they make mistakes. Maybe I was wrong to jump to conclusions about you. I know I have trust issues and that I’ve made some mistakes. But I want to believe it isn’t too late for us. I want to believe I can still change.

I’m finishing this letter as I lie in bed. I’ve resolved to go up to the eleventh floor and talk to you in person tomorrow, so I guess there’s no point in finishing it anyway. Besides, I’ve had a lot to distract from my writing. This whole time the cat has been crying unconsolably under the bed. I’ve just managed to coax him out. He still has that wild stray look in his eyes, and he keeps getting his claws caught in the carpet. So far, he hasn’t tried to scratch me when I free him. This seems like the beginning of trust.

I’m hoping tomorrow brings some clarity for us both. I hope we can start over.

Love, Leanne.

Swing

“Kinetics, n. The branch of dynamics which investigates the relations between the motions of bodies and the forces acting upon them.” Nights lengthen and the air above the Great

Basin and Mojave deserts cools with the change of season. The cold air condenses into a mass that glides toward the coast, rushing through the mountain passes of the Sierra Nevadas. The wind gathers heat and speed as it approaches the ocean. It fans the flames of forest fires, bustles past a branch, upsets a spray of dead brown leaves that accumulate in a city gutter along with crisp bougainvillea and yellow lawn clippings.

An incessant creaking sound that came from the yard next door was what finally freed

Chase from the doldrums. For the past two days, he had been beset with alternating waves of self-pity and regret, an emotional turmoil that ceased only in sleep. He had spent most of the past two days sleeping, but now, thanks to the irritating sound from next door, he had finally become aware again of his surroundings—the nearly empty master bedroom, the uncovered mattress his wife, Susie, had had the decency to leave him, the indentations in the carpet where she had dragged the rest of the furniture away. He had been staring at those marks in the carpet and wondering if he could ever make things right when he began to perceive a relentless noise in the background: a faint sound of wood and metal protesting under a heavy load. Unable to place the noise, Chase mustered the energy to rise from the makeshift bed. He shuffled to the window.

The source of the noise was a weathered wooden playset in his next-door neighbors’ backyard. The playset had a mini climbing wall that led to a raised platform and the top of a sun-

bleached slide. Opposite the slide, a swing set frame extended from the platform. One of the neighbor kids, a girl about twelve years old, was swinging with ferocious energy. She kicked off the ground and tucked her legs, throwing her weight backwards. Then, at the highest point of the backward swing, she extended her legs, perfectly timing the movement with the pull of gravity.

Rising on the opposite side, she leaned all her weight into the seat, the chains of the swing gripped in her hands as she sailed toward the sky. Her hair streamed behind her.

Chase lifted the blind to better observe his young neighbor. She had greasy-looking brown hair and skinny limbs that stuck out of a faded tie-dye shirt and baggy shorts. Her eyes were pinched shut in a pudgy, asymmetrical face. She seemed unconcerned with how near her shoes came to brushing the top of the fenceposts. She had a determined set to her jaw. She seemed to swing as if her life depended on it.

The backyard was a sorry sight. The patchy brown lawn was littered with children’s toys, rusting bicycles, and bags of potting soil. Empty terra cotta planters were stacked near the sliding back door. Heaps of trash were crammed in and around the garbage cans alongside the house.

The yard reminded Chase of his own childhood backyard with its rusty garden tools, sickly hens, and secret nooks where he used to hide for hours whenever his father was in a bad mood. No place for children, Chase thought. He shook his head at his neighbors’ neglect.

The neighbors had never held much interest for him before, busy as he was with work and, after he was laid off, with job interviews, after which he would find excuses to avoid returning home to Susie. He would go read the paper at Denny’s over a cheap mug of drip coffee or hole up in the local library to escape for a few hours into predictable mystery novels, self-help books, and outdated science textbooks. He couldn’t bear to face his wife’s endless questions about the progress of his job search nor the shame of returning to her unsuccessful once again.

Two days earlier, he had returned from an interview out of town to discover that Susie had left him. No note. Nothing but her hair in the sink and the scent on the towel she had left hanging in the bathroom as evidence she had ever lived there. Even before the lay-off and the fight, she had threatened to leave on more than one occasion. She said she was lonely. She said this wasn’t what she had signed up for and she regretted marrying him in the first place.

Yes, he’d made a terrible mistake. He had hit Susie once—only once—one time in their whole marriage. For a single moment, he had lost his head. He could admit that, even though the memory of that mistake filled him with shame and self-disgust. Even now, he could hardly believe he had lain a hand on her, something he had vowed he would never do. Knowing what he had done, he felt he could hardly blame her for leaving.

Even though she didn’t always make it easy, Chase really did love Susie. They’d been married since they were in their early twenties, a passionate romance that had settled into a dull but comfortable partnership. He realized now, now that she was gone, that he cared for her more than he had known. Although he’d made a mistake, he didn’t believe Susie would stay away.

They had too much history together. That said, he didn’t think she would return to him right away either. It would take time, a sincere and heartfelt apology, some grand gesture on his part.

He would find a new job, buy her that new furniture she’d been eyeing, start meeting with an anger management group. He would do whatever it took.

After getting up to investigate the swinging noise, Chase found he had the energy to go downstairs. He ate a bowl of cold cereal. He looked at his phone for the first time in days and

was disappointed and relieved to find he had no messages or missed calls from Susie. He had a few texts from friends inviting him over to watch football. Chase couldn’t bring himself to reply.

He’d been avoiding his friends since the layoff. He couldn’t stand their pity or their repeated assurances that he would be “back on his feet in no time.” He didn’t even want to imagine what they would say when they found out his wife had left him. They would want to know why, and

Chase would have to explain that it was because he had hit her. He couldn’t face their judgment, not now.

He went outside to check the mail. It was a typical autumn day in the city: blinding sunlight, the hot Santa Ana winds blowing. He opened the box with difficulty, as it was crammed with several days’ worth of mail. Sorting the mail in the house, Chase discovered, among an alarming number of bills and final notices, a handful of letters addressed to Steven Delgado at number 1455, the house with the playset. Realizing the mistake, Chase walked over to deliver the bills himself. As he neared the front porch, he heard a baby cry over the rasp of a cheap television set. He rang the doorbell and waited, noticing pairs of children’s shoes in various sizes piled in disarray beside the welcome mat. A bucket of kitty litter sat on one side of the door beside a carved pumpkin blackened with mold. The doorbell didn’t seem to be in order, so Chase rapped lightly. A dog barked, the harsh sound echoing in the entryway, until a voice cried,

“Shuddup, Charlie!” The dog yelped in pain.

A woman opened the door just wide enough to step out. She had a fat baby in one arm and a bib draped over her shoulder. She patted the baby’s back, and he proceeded to spit up onto the bib.

“I’m sorry,” Chase said, speaking over the dog’s barks and scratches on the other side of the door. He held out the little stack of mail. “These were delivered to my box by mistake.”

The woman shifted the baby to her other arm and took the mail. “Thanks. They’ve been doing that for years. Your wife always used to bring them over for us.” She eyed Chase. “Hey,

Jordan!” she yelled over her shoulder, startling him. “Come take the baby.” A moment later, the girl from the swing slipped out the front door, relieving her mother of the crying baby. From here, Chase could see that Jordan had a tired looking face for a child, with deep blue undereye circles, chapped lips, and dull green eyes. Jordan gave Chase a cursory glance before going back inside, taking the baby with her.

“I’m Alice,” the woman said as she folded up the dirty bib. Chase noticed that despite the hot day, Alice wore track pants and a long-sleeved shirt that didn’t quite cover her pregnant belly. One of her eyes was shot with blood and the surrounding lid was sort of yellow. “I know who you are,” Alice was saying. “Your wife used to tell me about you when she came over those few times.”

Chase wasn’t sure how to respond. What would Susie have told a stranger about him?

“She asked me and Steven to help her pack up when she left,” Alice said. “We felt bad for her. We knew she must not have any friends at all if she was asking us for help. Jordan watched the kids for a couple hours, so we could get the worst of the packing done.”

“That was good of you to help her with that,” Chase said. He felt a mixture of emotions, knowing this woman had helped his wife leave him, but he didn’t know what else to say.

“She let us have your leather sectional,” Alice said with a throaty laugh.

“That’s all right,” Chase said. He told her she could keep the sectional, though she hadn’t offered to give it back. He cleared his throat. “Well, I should be going.” He turned to leave.

“She came to me after you hit her,” Alice said, stopping Chase in his tracks. She narrowed her eyes at him then shrugged. “You probably already knew that.”

Chase looked down at his feet, at his socks in his slip-on sandals. He chewed his lip. “I didn’t know,” he admitted.

The memory of the fight was still fresh in his mind. It had been a couple weeks ago, after

Susie went off on him for failing to secure a job he’d been up for. “You can’t do anything right,” she had said. That was what had made him raise his hand in the first place. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He only wanted to be reminded of what it felt like to be a man. Afterwards, he had taken the car and driven to LA and back, using up a whole tank of gas.

By the time he got home around three in the morning, he felt sorry and guilty for what he had done. He found Susie curled up in their bed in a fetal position, her face swollen from crying.

How many times had he seen his mother in just the same position, blood and tears mixing on her face? In Chase’s early memories of the time before his parents’ separation, what stood out was the aftermath of the altercations rather than the altercations themselves. He remembered how his mother would rise from the bed when she noticed he was there. She would wipe her eyes with a laugh, as if to convince him she’d been in tears over a very good joke. She would go into the bathroom, wash her face, and apply powder to her red nose. “What shall we have for dinner?” she would murmur, taking Chase’s hand. They would give the study a wide berth, though the door was shut. Eventually, Chase’s father would emerge from the study, calm and even agreeable, with no apparent memory of the recent conflict. Not wishing to incite further violence,

Chase and his mother would play along.

He hadn’t known what to say to Susie as she lay in bed, hiccupping in a fitful half-sleep.

He thought about waking her. He envisioned her sitting up and slapping him with the back of her hand, how the sting would somehow lift the weight from his chest. Ultimately, he let her sleep.

He took the pillow from his side of the bed and spent the night on the couch downstairs. He fell

asleep just as the sun began to rise. Hours later, he awoke to the clatter of pans in the kitchen, the insistent bubble of the coffee maker. Susie had barely acknowledged him when he came into the room. “Don’t,” she said, when he began to speak. Without another word, she withdrew to the bedroom.

“I advised her to leave while she still could,” Alice said now in a lowered voice. “A lot easier to leave when there aren’t kids in the picture. And if a man’ll hit you one time, he’ll do it again.” The baby cried in the background, and someone inside the house cursed. “I better get going,” Alice said, pushing her hair behind her ear. “You should too.”

Back at home, Chase was upset. He dug through his fridge and removed cartons of expired milk, rotten vegetables, and leftovers, enough to fill a whole garbage bag. What upset him most was imagining Alice and Larry going through his home, upending his bedroom drawer into a box, perhaps commenting on its intimate contents while Susie was in another room. They had no right to get involved in his personal business. He felt terrible about hitting Susie, but it had been one time, and it seemed like she had forgiven him. For the first few days after the incident, Susie had avoided and ignored him, but after that, it had seemed like she was ready to move on. She had allowed Chase back into their room, though she had warned him to stay on his side of the bed. She had seemed to accept his apology, poor as he admitted it had been. Things had been rough with the job search and the bills, he had explained. He had crossed a boundary he never should have, and he was sorry. He had promised it would never happen again. Although

Susie had remained guarded, he had believed they were going to work through their problem.

Maybe they would have if Alice hadn’t gotten involved.

When he was through with the fridge, Chase turned to the pantry, feeling oddly satisfied as the garbage bag grew fuller and fuller. He came across an old loaf of bread, dry and beginning to mold. He felt a fresh wave of shame, remembering how Susie had always saved the heels of bread to feed to the waterfowl that gathered in the pond in the community park. On a whim, he tore off the moldy bits of the bread, tossed them in the trash, and made up his mind to walk to the pond and feed the ducks right then and there.

After all the stress and inactivity, it felt good to stretch his legs. The breeze played through Chase’s hair, which by now had become shaggy. After walking for several blocks, he approached the pond. A boy and his father fished in the reeds near the “No Fishing” sign. A homeless man baked in the sun. As Chase drew near the murky green water, he began to tear the bread into small bits. He stood at the edge of the pond, wound up, and threw the bread as far as he could. A pair of greedy mallards swarmed at his feet, but he threw bread to the ducks that held back, patiently waiting their turn. He wondered where Susie had gone. She didn’t have any family nearby. Although she had a few friends in the area, he couldn’t see her asking them for help. That would involve taking them into her confidence and revealing the private circumstances of the conflict. Susie was too proud for that, or so Chase thought. Then again, she had sought Alice’s help—Alice, a total stranger. Chase supposed there was no telling what Susie would do.

When he returned, he noticed as soon as he got within the vicinity of his home that

Jordan was in the backyard again, her neurotic swinging announced by the intermittent grind and scrape of the playset. The rusty chains that suspended the seat of the swing objected to the girl’s

weight, emitting an incessant rusty door hinge sound. Sk-ree—skroo. It sounded almost like the petulant sound geese make when they are about to take flight. He couldn’t help but wonder why

Jordan seemed to spend all her free time in the backyard, pumping herself higher and higher in the swing.

The next day, Chase began looking through online job boards to see if any new listings had appeared for which he was qualified. He wasn’t quite ready to give up on the house yet, and it would be easier to negotiate with a loan servicer if he could tell them he was, at least, employed. He wondered if finding a job were the solution to all his problems, if Susie would magically decide to return to him if only he had a job.

By late afternoon, he had identified a number of prospects and was planning to go out to purchase some groceries when he heard the school bus pull up next door, depositing Jordan and her brother in front of their house. Minutes later, the swing sound started up again. Chase had the windows open, since he wasn’t running the air conditioner these days, and he could hear the swing distinctly. He was startled, however, to discover that he could hear other sounds coming from the Delgados’ house.

He heard the dog barking, the sound of glass shattering, and a woman screaming: “Don’t you come any closer!” Driven by a morbid curiosity, Chase crept up to the window that faced their house and peered over. The shades were drawn, but it was already dark enough that he could see the couple silhouetted against the windows. The woman, Alice, had sunken to the ground. She had her arms over her head and seemed to be making herself smaller. Steven stood over her, legs spread wide in a dominant stance. Alice’s cry was like that of an injured bird, erratic and confused. Steven said several sentences in a low voice that Chase couldn’t distinguish.

Shaken, it was several minutes before Chase realized that throughout the entire episode,

Jordan had kept time with the furious beat of her legs, eyes pinched shut, as if she believed that if she could only pump hard enough, the swing would take her, up and away. She would swing all night if she had to.

Chase could still see Alice, the top of her head at least. She sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest. Steven had disappeared from view, but Chase could still hear his sharp voice cutting through the walls: “I’m not done with you.” Alice buried her head in her knees looking so much like Chase’s mother, so much like his own Susie had. A fresh pang of remorse shot through

Chase’s being.

At that moment he noticed the swinging sound had ceased. He redirected his attention to the backyard and saw, to his alarm, that Jordan lay at the foot of the swing, her limbs sticking out at odd angles. She must have fallen from the swing while he was preoccupied with her parents’ altercation. “No, no, no,” Chase said, tearing his eyes away from the scene below to rush downstairs and out the front door. Pushing aside a wheelbarrow, he unlatched the side gate into the Delgados’ backyard and hurried to Jordan’s side.

When she saw him coming, Jordan attempted to rise up but winced when she put weight on her arm and collapsed back down. The swing appeared to have broken. The rusty chains lay coiled in the grass like snakes. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. Her face twisted as she fought back tears. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,” she said. She tested out her other arm and slowly pressed herself up to a seated position.

Chase offered his arm and helped her move closer to one of the playset posts. She leaned back against it, grimacing with pain, and used her good hand to wipe the tears from her face. She seemed embarrassed that she had been crying at all. “No one is upset with you,” Chase said. “No need to apologize. May I?” He examined Jordan’s arm and noted the bulge protruding beneath her skin near the elbow joint. “I think it’s dislocated,” he said. “You need to go the hospital.”

Jordan froze, her face working with emotion, before she began to cry in earnest. Chase sat back on his heels and watched. He felt he should do something, but he wasn’t sure what. “It’s okay,” he said. He gave her back a gentle pat. “You’re going to be okay.”

His words prompted a fresh fit of tears. “They’re going to be so mad,” Jordan said, her words coming in desperate gasps. Tears and snot covered her face. “Mom’s got enough to worry about, and he’s not about to take me to the hospital.”

“I’ll take you,” Chase said. It was the obvious solution. The girl needed medical attention immediately. “You need help right away.”

“We can’t afford it,” Jordan said. She wasn’t crying as hard now. She touched the protruding bone with her good hand and shuddered. “Dad might be able to set it.”

Chase shook his head. “That’s out of the question. You need professional help. My wife and I will cover the expense.”

Jordan bit her lip and pinched her eyes shut, seeming to have been hit with another wave of pain. “How are you going to pay for it? Didn’t you lose your job?” she said through gritted teeth.

“That’s true,” Chase admitted. He didn’t know how he’d pay the bill, but he couldn’t stand to leave Jordan there on the ground any longer. “I’m going to take you to my car,” he said.

“We’ll get you some help.” He lifted her up, trying not to move her bad arm. He kicked open the

side gate and had Jordan lean on him while he dug his keys out of his back pocket and unlocked the car. He helped her into the front seat and buckled the seat belt for her. “I’m just going to let your parents know,” Chase said. “I’m sure your mom will want to come with us.” He turned toward the Delgados’ house.

“Hey,” Jordan said. “Didn’t your wife leave you?” She sat forward in her seat, brows furrowed.

Chase turned back toward her with a sigh. He rubbed his neck and looked up at the clouds that reflected the yellow city lights. “She did,” he said.

“Why’d you hit her?” Jordan asked. The sound of more glass shattering inside the

Delgados’ house rang in the night air.

“It seemed like the whole world had it in for me then,” Chase said at last. “I lost my job, I couldn’t support my wife, couldn’t seem to make her happy.” He exhaled heavily. “I guess it made me feel bigger in the moment, like I had control over at least one aspect of my life.”

Jordan waited, listening.

Chase pressed a thumb to the corner of one eye. “I just hope I get the chance to make it right,” he said. “I want to show her I’m better than that.”

Jordan relaxed back against the seat. “You’re not like my dad,” she said. “You will.”

Chase half-smiled, wanting more than anything to believe Jordan’s words proved true. “I sure hope so,” he said. He closed the car door.

Drift

When her fiancé Lenny surprised her with a weekend trip to the city, Heather tried to muster at least an appearance of excitement. But as he showed her photos of the hotel and places to see in the area, she found her attention straying from the irritating fingerprints smeared across

Lenny’s laptop screen to her ring finger, naked for now while the ring was being resized. His proposal had been more of a surprise than this trip was. They’d had a big fight the day before over an insensitive comment Lenny had made. The next morning, lying beside her after their ritual make-up sex, he’d popped the question, pulling a ring box from the nightstand drawer. It had been there all along, a detail she now found vaguely upsetting. She’d been finding everything vaguely upsetting ever since they’d announced the engagement and a deluge of poorly punctuated congratulatory notes and well-wishes had flooded her social media and email, among them a message from her father, whom she had not spoken to in fifteen years.

She’d nearly deleted the message when she saw who it was from. Who needed him?

She’d spent the better part of her life dealing with the aftermath of his careless abandonment.

After the divorce finalized, he had dropped off the map, leaving her and her mother to fend for themselves. For years, Heather had watched her mother struggle to support them, watched the men whom she briefly allowed within her sphere disappoint again and again. Heather had resolved never to give a man the opportunity to hurt her.

“I’m sorry. I should have asked you first,” Lenny said now. Heather roused herself from her thoughts.

“I’m just upset still is all,” she said.

He studied their hands, clasped on the bedspread between them. “I think it would help if you’d let me read it. Or talk about it at least.”

Heather stiffened, noticed herself stiffening, and took a deep, practiced breath, forcing her body to relax. She reminded herself that she didn’t want to fight right now, counting slowly to ten in her head. “It’s not important what he said,” she replied. “He’s not worth your time or mine.”

* * *

I’m Sorry

Shane Rivera Mar 25 to Heather Wong

Dear Heddy,

It’s your dad. Today, an old friend of your mom’s and mine told me that you are getting married. I’ve been meaning to reach out for a long time, so when I heard this news, I took it as a sign the time was right.

I have never forgotten what you told me when we spoke last. You said you wanted to come along on my next fishing trip. You hated fishing. I remember how you’d wrinkle your nose when you had to cut a worm into pieces and spear it on a hook the way I taught you, so it wouldn’t fall off in the fish’s mouth. You hated fishing, but you said you wanted to come along.

I never forgot that. I’m sort of trying to tell you how sorry I am. If there’s one thing I regret about my past, it’s missing out on you.

I am wondering how you are, what kind of woman you have become. Who is this man you’re with now? I don’t deserve to feel protective of you, I guess, but that was my first impulse.

I’d like to know all about him but, more importantly, about you. Please reply.

Love, Dad

* * *

Heather and Lenny left for their trip on Friday right after work, crossing the city limits just as the sun was setting. While Lenny drove, Heather read and reread her father’s emails. A second one had come in that morning, and Heather had been thinking about it all day. “He wants to know about you,” Heather told Lenny when he kept asking her for details.

“What would you tell him? If you were to reply, I mean.”

Heather had to think. For months, she’d held her friendship with Lenny at a distance. The occasional flirtatious exchange, a ride home now and again, nothing more. They worked together on a large web design team, Lenny on the technical side of things, Heather on the design.

Projects sometimes forced them to collaborate, but for the most part, she avoided being alone with him. When, in spite of herself, they grew closer, she believed—and sometimes still believed—that he’d prove to be just like other men, men like her father. Lenny had abandonment issues too, being estranged from his alcoholic father, so he and Heather had what Heather’s mom described as “matching baggage.” They worked well together, even when they were fighting.

They mutually admired each other’s abilities to say and do the things that would hurt each other most. They hurt in the same places. Heather remembered every major fight they’d ever had down to the last detail, every hurtful comment and logical fallacy readily accessible anytime she needed to prove a point. She knew she should learn to forgive and forget, but instead she clung to her memories of past wrongs, building them up around her like a shield against future pain.

“I guess I would tell him you’re smart and patient. You’re reliable. You take care of me.

You must love me because you’ve stuck around this long....”

Lenny seemed to be waiting for her to say something more, but she was blanking.

“That it?” Lenny said, voice flat, eyes on the road.

“That’s a lot,” Heather defended herself. “It’s not like I’m replying to him anyway.”

Lenny stared forward. Heather could almost hear him counting to ten in his head, though that wasn’t usually long enough to prevent an argument. “That’s not the point,” he said finally.

They lapsed into an uneasy, charged silence for the remaining half hour of the trip.

* * *

About Me

Shane Rivera April 3 to Heather Wong

Dear Heddy,

I thought you might have questions. About me, where I am, what I have been doing with myself since you last saw me. It occurred to me you might be too shy to ask. I remember as a girl you were deeply shy. Couldn’t stand crowds, couldn’t talk to strangers. I guess I am a stranger, too.

So in case you were wondering, I have been in Australia for most of the time. I couldn’t work as a physician here, so instead I worked with a team of bio researchers for a long time.

Then, a couple years ago, I retired on the coast, close to Sydney but far enough away that I can still afford to have a large yard. I walk along the boardwalk almost every morning. I pick up driftwood and shells along the beach because I remember how you used to collect them. Do you still? I set up a nice workshop in my garage, and I make things out of the stuff I collect— wreaths, odd little figurines, larger sculptures if I have a lot of wood on hand. People seem to like them. Some city official saw the sculpture I had on display in my yard and commissioned me to build a bigger piece for display in the court house. That’s been my biggest project so far.

It’s not done yet. I’m not sure if it ever will be.

What I love about working with driftwood is how much it gives. The more worn and battered it becomes in the waves, the better. It is the softest thing I touch these days.

You should know that Cheryl left me just two years after your mother and I split. I have been single since then. I hope that answers the questions you might be too shy to ask. Please reply.

Love, Dad

* * *

By the time they checked into the hotel, they were both hungry. They dropped their bags off at the room before walking a few blocks and taking the stairs down to the river that ran right through the center of downtown. They ate at a restaurant beside the water. It glistened and churned as ferries loaded with tourists floated by. Heather was quiet, sipping her iced tea and occasionally crunching on a tortilla chip. She wished she knew what words she could use to reassure Lenny of her feelings for him. Words to reassure herself. Their meal eaten in silence, she sat angled away from Lenny, facing the water. She watched a bridal party who were having their photos taken on the bridge that extended over the waterway. A photographer in a ferry floating below was gesturing up at the people, telling each one where to stand. Two small children, probably the ring bearer and a flower girl, had been hoisted up to sit on the edge of the wall, their short legs dangling. “I’m afraid they’re going to fall,” Heather said, breaking the silence.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Lenny said. He met Heather’s eyes for a moment then looked away.

“I didn’t mean it,” Heather ventured. “You have lots of positive qualities. I just can’t imagine putting them into words, especially for my father.”

Lenny repositioned a butter knife on the table. “Maybe that’s all it is.”

Heather shook her head. “Of course, it is. What do you mean?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking off over the water. “I mean, I get that you’re upset about your dad. From what you’ve told me, he’s a miserable excuse for a human being. I hate him for messing you up. But I don’t think it should affect how you feel about me. I mean, I think my devotion to you ought to be described in more positive terms than ‘sticking around.’ I mean, we’re getting married. Doesn’t that prove anything?”

By this point, other diners had begun to notice Lenny and Heather. Lenny scribbled his name on the check and got up, leaving behind his take-out box. Heather grabbed it and followed, walking fast to catch up to him.

“Hold on a second,” she said, grabbing his arm. “So you think I’m messed up?”

Lenny shook her off. “Cut it out, Heather,” he said in a low voice. “People are watching.”

“So what? Let them,” Heather said, stopping short, but Lenny kept walking.

“You’re just like him,” Heather called after him. She’d say anything to make him stop.

Couldn’t he see how he was hurting her?

That did make him turn around, and for a fleeting moment, Heather thought everything could still be all right. He met her eyes. They were both waiting for an apology, both too stubborn to be the first to speak, their usual stand-off. “We’ll talk when you’re ready to be reasonable,” he said, walking away.

Heather was more angry than hurt, but as she became aware of her surroundings, she felt a wave of fear surge up inside her. The night was starting to wear. The restaurants and bars had emptied out, and the ferries were moored alongside the river. Groups of people staggered from the bars, their drunken shouts echoing off the waterway. She felt very alone.

She started to walk back in the direction of the hotel, the lights strung up in the trees glowing hazy yellow through her tear-filled vision. She slapped at the mosquitoes that seemed to rise up from the water. When she realized she had nearly reached the hotel, she hesitated and looked around for a place to sit and collect herself. She didn’t really want to go up to the room if he was there. She knew why. Because if she did, things would end up as they always did after they fought. They would have desperate make-up sex, willfully forgetting all the hurtful things they’d said until the next time something pushed them over the edge.

Heather could imagine it—how the pain would disappear between the sheets, how their bodies would reconcile all the wrong between them. They would begin again, all sins forgotten, until the next fallout. Heather pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to forget, to leave herself vulnerable to more hurt and heartbreak.

She settled herself on a secluded bench that had been built around the base of one of the oak trees growing near the water. She watched a floating litter of brown leaves and red plastic straws swirl in an eddy near the base of the bridge close by. Mosquitoes buzzed and bats swooped low over the water.

Her phone vibrated, notifying her that a new email had arrived from her father. Heather hated herself for how quickly she opened it, how eagerly she read. It was a short one:

Are You There?

Shane Rivera just now to Heather Wong

Dear Heddy,

I am starting to worry that I have the wrong address….

You know, I’ve kept track of you over the years best that I could, internet and everything.

From what I’ve seen, you’ve grown into a beautiful woman. I am proud of you without deserving to be. How many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry before you’ll answer me? That’s not fair of me to say, I know. I’m in no position to be making demands.

I wish it were possible to make things right with your mother, but I confess I am still working up the courage to face all the hurt I caused. it is hard enough to speak to you—

The email ended there, rather abruptly, Heather thought. She imagined her father, somewhere in Australia, picking out words on a keyboard, pressing “enter,” and waiting hopefully for a reply. He was waiting somewhere that very moment. Maybe carving a piece of driftwood meanwhile. She needed someone to talk to.

As if on cue, another email popped up:

(no subject)

Shane Rivera just now to Heather Wong

Dear Heddy,

That last email sent before I was finished with it.

I was writing about how I wonder where you are today, or tonight, or whatever time of day it is where you are.

I have figured out I have the right email for you. I know you must be getting my messages, and I can only hope you are reading them.

I wanted to tell you I’ve finally figured out how I want to finish my driftwood monument.

All along I have resisted the urge to design something too representational, but then I was thinking about it today. I was thinking this may be the only chance I have to show others my work, and I don’t want my message to be unclear, an abstraction.

I convinced the city council to put the monument up by the bay, on this grassy hill that overlooks the water. They were concerned that it wouldn’t withstand the coastal weather. I tried to tell them this is driftwood we are talking about, but in the end, I had better luck telling them

I’d treat the wood with some kind of preservative. They won’t know the difference.

If you ever come see the monument, you’ll find a little note carved into the piece of wood that looks like a wishbone. I hope you will read it someday….

Except you won’t, will you? You’ll always hate me for making choices that you were too young to understand. How many times do I have to apologize for mistakes I made more than fifteen years ago? You have never even tried to understand or forgive me. You are married to the past.

So be it. I feel sorry for you. You must be a very unhappy person.

Dad

Heather gripped her phone in her hands, finger poised over the screen. She’d sworn to herself she wouldn’t talk to him, but the temptation at that moment was too strong.

“Dad,” she typed, then paused, uncomfortable with the appearance of the familiar word on her screen. Did he deserve that term of endearment?

“Dad, father, Shane, whoever-you-are: You need to stop emailing this address. I am only telling you this once.

“You asked me where I am right now. Well, I am alone. Turns out I’m just like you. My fiancé is in our hotel room, probably sleeping off our latest fight. He isn’t perfect, but he’s better than you. Do you really want to know how much you hurt me? I think I’d like to tell you, except

I’ve been telling myself you weren’t worth the time. You aren’t worth the time.

“Don’t waste your time on the monument, the note. I won’t come and see it. Why don’t you bring it to me, then we’ll talk.

“Tonight, Lenny (his name is Lenny) called you a ‘miserable excuse for a human being,’ and I thought that was the best description I’d ever heard for you.” Heather shuddered, the words like poison. She had already decided she would never send this email, but she kept typing.

“If you said you left because it was easier than staying, I might actually believe you.

Leaving is easy. I’m ready to leave. Was it worth it? Did you feel better afterwards? Are you happy now? Are you happy?”

By this point, Heather just felt tired. She held the phone in the palm of her head, harmless pixels on the screen. Meanwhile, she watched the leaves spiraling in the water and wondered what she would tell Lenny. There was another hotel on the other side of the river, and she could see a pair of figures embracing on one of the balconies, their bodies dark silhouettes against the light coming from behind the curtains. For all Heather knew, they’d been fighting too. Maybe they were engaged. Maybe they were the couple from the bridal party earlier. It didn’t seem to matter who or what the circumstances were. It was easier for Heather to tell herself that than to admit that her choices had led her to this point.

She pressed her fists into her eyes, willing herself to cry, to feel some emotion besides the dull throb in her chest, her forehead. She told herself she wouldn’t send the email. She would talk things out with Lenny, or try to. If they weren’t meant to last, they wouldn’t, but she wouldn’t walk out on him without at least trying to make things right. He’d been trying to understand, but she hadn’t been willing to let him in. Maybe now she’d let him read the emails.

They could write a response together, cool-headed. Or maybe someday they could go see the monument with their kids. Or maybe they would end up breaking things off, but at least they would make that decision together. She refused to hurt other people like her father had hurt her.

Lenny deserved better than that and so did she.

Heather got up from the bench, feeling sore and stiff yet somehow older and more whole.

She started walking up the stairs, stopping at the top to glance over her shoulder for one last look at the couple on the balcony. They were still holding each other. They are holding each other still.

CHAPTER III

FLASH FICTIONS

Beach Town

The tide retreats. The sun balances on the horizon, and the first wave of beachgoers appears. Barefoot, they cart their belongings right up close to the water, the division between ocean and land. They spread towels on the sand, plant umbrellas, and erect tents. They fly bright foil kites like flags.

By noon, the beachfront population has exploded. People fight for space. Neighbors crowd closer begrudgingly. One party plays music loud over portable speakers. The beat drifts from beneath the tent, territory extended by sound. People roll their eyes behind tinted shades and hold dense memoirs in front of their faces. Someone lodges an official complaint with beach authorities. The volume is lowered a few decibels.

The day progresses. Joggers sweat past. People attempt card games. The cards scatter in the wind. Meanwhile kids chase the waves in and out. They shriek when the icy water sloshes up their short legs. They stagger back to their parents, clothes drenched, lips blue. Later, they fill buckets with wet sand. Mole crabs are displaced. Castles are built and destroyed. The queen of spades is lost. Civilizations rise and fall.

By sunset the city of tents and umbrellas has migrated inland with the tide. People gather around coveted firepits. A chill settles. People start to break camp. They empty soda cans and drag coolers to the parking lot, track sand into their cars.

By dark, the beach is deserted, temporarily reclaimed by the waves. But tomorrow, the water will recede once again, and the desire for space will draw people to the beach frontier just as the moon draws the tide.

Afterwards She Counts the Money

She straddles the beach chair in the dark. Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. The waves slap the shore. The bills are worn and grimy with fingerprints. They stick to her hands. She feels filthy.

Fifty-three, fifty-four. She chews her lip and swallows. It is not the amount they agreed upon. The boardwalk is empty but for one unfamiliar man’s silhouette. She stows the money, strips, and showers under the public faucet by the steps. Soon, she says. Soon she will have enough to travel inland. She will do other work there, have a new life. Cold water sprays. She shivers. She can feel the man’s eyes travel over her body. She turns and lets her head fall back, weighed down by her hair, now soaked and dripping. She washes the day away: the hours parading down the boardwalk pool at her ankles, the evening in the stranger’s bed gurgles down the drain.

She rinses his breath from her neck, scrubs every inch of her body until her fingernails fill with skin. Yet, the night clings to her like a stain. She will never be clean. She wishes she could wash away, and then she does. She disappears down the drain. She swirls through the pipes beneath the sand and shoots into the ocean. This is temporary, she reminds herself. The current takes her, forcing sharp saltwater down her throat. Her lungs burn. She thrashes against the ocean, fights to the surface, gulping for air. It will be over soon, she soothes. When the waves press her down, she submits.

In the morning she washes ashore, naked and beaten. She picks herself up. Her clothes and money are where she left them. Someday, she tells herself, she will have a new life. For now, the boardwalk teems with rich, lonely men, and she will go with the first one who takes her.

Skywriting

Puffs of smoke trail behind the aircraft as it loops in the sky above the beach. Diane facepalms. Chris beams. The words WILL YOU MARRY ME DIANE? appear for all to see.

You didn’t, she says.

Chris kneels in the sand and snaps open a ring box. His stance attracts a small crowd of spectators.

She grimaces. She has told him she isn’t ready for this step. I’m sorry, she says. I can’t.

She walks away, but not before Chris begins to weep. Someone snaps a picture of Chris’s tear- stricken face, the words dissipating in the sky. Later, the photo will circulate on the internet:

#proposalfail #foreveralone #atleastyourenotthisguy. A humiliating meme is born. The rejection goes viral.

In the days afterward, Diane feels she may have been cruel. She tries to apologize, but

Chris isn’t home. She calls, emails, sends letters. She pays to have her apologies written in the sky.

I’m sorry Chris.

Chris please forgive me.

If you’re out there I’m sorry —Diane

Within minutes, Diane’s messages disappear. She watches the sky return to a dull, empty blue. She suspects she would never have felt ready to marry Chris and that shows she had really loved him though of course it is too late for those thoughts now.

Luck

Lisa waved the metal detector over the sand like a magic wand. She peered from beneath the brim of her sun visor and imagined what treasures the earth held for her. Earlier that day her adult children had made fun. The detector cost twenty dollars per hour to rent. How many quarters did she expect to find? Lisa had tried to explain. People have been losing valuable items at the beach for centuries: jewelry, watches, knick-knacks. Perhaps she would find something special. “We can buy you those things, whatever you need,” her children had said in the placating voices they used with their toddlers. “Besides, you might become too hot or get lost.”

Lisa had shrugged, pretending not to understand. At her first opportunity, she had stolen away from the spot they had claimed near the water, rented the detector, and wandered along the towel line toward the point. No one seemed to notice she was gone.

Now, the detector sounded, and Lisa scratched at the sand with her toe. She uncovered a small metallic lump, which she held up to her sunglasses. She pursed her mouth, not to appear overly excited. Perhaps it was gold. In the 1850s, her very great grandfather had left China to try his luck in the California mines. He had extracted a rich vein of gold and become a wealthy man, though over time he had gambled the fortune away. Now, Lisa weighed the nugget in her palm.

She pulled out a rusty key she had found earlier and used the end to scratch the nugget’s surface.

The metal flaked. Not gold, but no matter. The day was not over yet.

Lisa dropped the key back into the plastic grocery bag that contained the rest of the day’s finds: bottlecaps and pull tabs, dozens of bobby pins, a broken pair of sunglasses, a dog tag, a fishing lure, less than a dollar’s worth of loose change. She was looking for something special, some treasure or artifact. Rings held no value for her. Years ago, she had thrown her own

wedding ring to the waves. It had been a single two-carat stone set in white gold, cheapened in her eyes from infidelity and broken promises.

The sun was low, the tide rising as Lisa circled the point and entered a deserted stretch of beach. Driftwood and heaps of kelp rotted on the shore, flung there after a recent storm. The detector shrieked as Lisa swung it over a trough in the sand. Her heart beat fast and she threw the detector aside. She knelt and dug with both hands. She uncovered the top of a brass head. The hole deepened. The sand at the bottom was wet. Though her frail arms ached, she continued digging. She widened the hole to prevent it from caving in. In an hour’s time, she had uncovered the top half of a metal figure, some sort of she-creature with long hands clasped over its breasts.

The figure was stuck fast in the sand. When Lisa inspected it more closely, she discovered it was attached to the metal wall of some kind of vessel, an old ship perhaps.

She worked fast, her old hands clawing the sand as she realized what she had found. The moon had risen, and briefly Lisa stopped to consider how worried her children must be.

“Grandma wandered off,” they would explain to their kids, exchanging looks of concern over their heads. “But don’t worry, we’ll find her. She can’t have gone far.” Lisa sat back on her heels, panting, and studied the sand that clung to the vessel. She knew she made life hard for her children. More than once, she had overheard them talking about her, what a burden she’d become. Lisa considered what it would be like if she abandoned the find now and returned to her family. How they would scold her! Probably they would never let her out of their sight again.

Visions of assisted living homes, rice pudding, and bingo nights filled Lisa’s head. She pushed them away and fell to her task with newfound purpose. She had come too far to turn back. She worked her way around the rim of the vessel, saucer-shaped and just larger than her old station

wagon had been. In the dark, she found the outline of a door and pressed. The door opened inward.

The interior of the vessel beeped and flashed. Unfamiliar symbols illuminated buttons, knobs, and wheels. Years ago, her children had insisted she was too old to be driving, but Lisa knew she could operate this vehicle. She slid into the comfortable seat behind the dashboard and reached instinctively for a knob. Wipers appeared on the windshield and cleared the sand away.

She eased the vessel into the air to hover just above the surface of the hole. The ocean stretched out before her, glowing a dull green in the light from the ship. In the moonlight, she could see the shadow the ship cast on the gray sand. She pressed a button, activating a cloaking device. The shadow disappeared.

Lisa took it slow at first. The vessel rose high above the beach. She circled back to the place where she had left her family. The lights of a dozen police vehicles flashed over the water.

The sandbar swarmed with activity. Lisa recognized her oldest son speaking to an officer. Even from a distance, she could discern the panic twisting his features, the anxious tension in his jaw.

Lisa hiccupped and wiped her face. She would be a worry to her children as long as she lived.

She thought how much better it would be if she were gone.

She spun the wheel so that she faced the ocean. Space beckoned with the possibility of new adventures, an altered fortune. Stars and planets blinked overhead. Were they stars? Or were they other people like her, people whose tiresome earth days were finally at an end? She skimmed the surface of the water then looped up into the night.

High Tide

“I’m not listening.” His words carried over the sand, bounced back from the waves. The beach was dark, illuminated only by the distant lights on the boardwalk. The man and the woman could be seen in silhouette, their fight heard from far up the beach.

As we approached the couple, Cecil tugged my hand, encouraging me to give them a wide berth. They stood opposite one another. The woman kicked up sprays of gray sand. The man watched, arms crossed over his chest.

“You never listen,” the woman said.

Cecil walked faster, dragging me behind him like an anchor. I felt compelled by this couple. I wanted to know what would happen next. I was afraid for the woman. The man’s fists were clenched at his side now. He shouted into the woman’s face, gesturing wildly.

The waves crashed, and cold ocean water shot up the incline of the shore, licking at my ankles, splashing up onto my bare shins. I shivered as the wind blew over the sand.

“Come on,” Cecil said. He didn’t want to get involved. We had been married for nearly

48 hours. We turned our backs on the couple, dragging our bare feet through the wet sand. At the hotel, I asked to go to bed early, alone. We will never be like that, I promised myself. I lay awake, listening to the ocean’s roar, the shore’s muffled response.

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