GOD BLESS the CHILD a Written Creative Work Submitted to The

GOD BLESS THE CHILD A written creative work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University In partial fulfillment of a . The requirements for The Degree OXo 2-0'k Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing by Dylan Brie Ducey San Francisco, California January 2016 Copyright by Dylan Brie Ducey 2016 CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL I certify that I have read God Bless the Child by Dylan Brie Ducey, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. frotessor of Creative Writing Department Chair of Creative Writing GOD BLESS THE CHILD Dylan Brie Ducey San Francisco, California 2016 God Bless the Child is a collection of short stories peopled by characters that attempt to connect with others, often to disastrous effect. These characters are mothers, men, young women, girls, all trying to find their place in the world. A couple awakened by gunfire in the middle of the night, a young woman whose boyfriend is an immigrant, a mother struggling with postpartum psychosis, a working mother who finds herself at a birthday party on Mother’s Day. I certify that the annotation is a correct representation of the content of this written :ee Date ACKNOWLEGEMENTS I am grateful to Joy Williams for her line edits on “Hush Little Baby,” and to the editors of The Pinch, WhiskeyPaper, Pear Noir! Gargoyle, decomP, Transfer, New Delta Review, Gravel, and Monkeybicycle, where some of these stories first appeared. Special thanks to JPD for childcare. TLG, HRG, TZG: You are the world to me. TABLE OF CONTENTS All the Things You Are............................................................................................................1 Two Polish Parties.................................................................................................................. 17 Even When You Think I’m Not There................................................................................. 36 The Acolyte............................................................................................................................. 54 Black Faux Fur Coat at Caffe Trieste................................................................................... 58 God Bless the Child................................................................................................................64 Hush Little Baby.....................................................................................................................83 How To Be an American Mother.........................................................................................101 The Woman and the Baby.................................................................................................... 112 39th Street, Oakland...............................................................................................................117 The Black Leather Pants...................................................................................................... 123 Jaconita..................................................................................................................................125 Twelve Is Hell....................................................................................................................... 145 Effacee Like Me.................................................................................................................... 150 v 1 All the Things You Are “Andrzej Sczcypiorski,” I said, tossing back a third shot of vodka. I’d brought out my Polish shot glasses, special. “The Beautiful Mrs. Seidenmann,” Sutton said without pausing. “I liked it.” She glanced at her watch. It was 11:30 and raining torrentially. I supposed I should offer to walk her home, but I felt lazy. Besides, I wanted her to stay with me. Quickly I thought up another quiz item to distract her. “Bruno Schulz.” “The Street of Crocodiles. Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass.” “You’re good. But here’s a hard one. Hanna Krall.” I was stalling. Sutton rolled her eyes. I could see she was tiring of my game. “The Subtenant. I have to go,” she said, getting up out of her chair. She had a special talent for leaving just at the moment when I felt I had to have her. “Thanks for the drink,” she continued, and moved smoothly about the room, gathering her bag and jacket. I sat helplessly, wanting to mess up her hair and then comb it, feeling its sleekness under my fingers. Instead I followed her to the door, and unlocked 2 the deadbolt for her. The most I could manage was to draw her to me and kiss her. The thinness of her chest against mine made me lose my breath. She tolerated the embrace, then slid out of my arms into the hall. “Bye,” she said, smiling. I stood watching while she disappeared down the stairs, wishing my apartment had a window on the street so I could watch her walking in the rain. I went back inside and listened to the ringing of the telephone. I knew it was Clara, so I let the machine answer it. When Clara spoke in her soft, hesitant voice I turned down the volume. She was my girlfriend. I had never cheated on a woman before, and didn’t know what one did at this point. In brief, I’d seen Sutton in an evening class, admired her for a month, looked her up in the phone book and, incredibly, she’d spent some time with me. But I wanted more. I consulted my friend Tad on this matter. “I’m going to tell Sutton I’m seeing someone already,” I suggested, expecting him to say this was a good idea. “No, is bad idea,” he said in his heavy Polish accent. “You falling for younger woman, Stan. To her you are furniture. Chair maybe. She sit on you, then throw in garbage.” “But Tad,” I protested, “How do you know all that? You’ve never met her!” “Stanislaw, you trust me, yes? Is mistake to tell new girl about Clara.” 3 I did not like what he had said, so I ignored it and began planning my confession to Sutton. First I took Clara out to lunch, and casually mentioned that tomorrow night I had to go to a boring lecture with Tad, and that I would be home late. “Okay,” she said. No resistance there. I walked her back to the head shop where she worked, right next door to my apartment building, and she went behind the counter to smoke some pot. I took a hit too, and then kissed her and went back up to my apartment. I went straight for the telephone and dialed Tad’s number. He wasn’t home; he was at the Slavic Department at school. (He was writing a dissertation, which is what I would have been doing too, if I’d turned in a competent Masters thesis.) I left him a message: “Tadeusz, The Girl is coming over tomorrow night, but if Anyone asks, I’m with you at the Russian lecture. Got it? Djienkuje bardzo, czezc.” The next number I called was Sutton’s. It was 2:00 on a Thursday, so of course she was at work. I spoke to her machine: “Sutton, angel. Come to dinner tomorrow around seven? I will provide the edibles and potables. Just bring your self.” I was a little stoned. I was also unemployed, so I had a lot of time to kill. The next thing I did was to run back downstairs and buy a 120-minute cassette at the record store, so I could make a tape for Sutton. I wanted her to hear some of the jazz I enjoyed so much. My telephone rang late that evening, and I was engrossed in writing a villanelle, so I let the machine pick it up. Sutton left a message: “I might be a little late, but I’ll be there.” Then Tad called and I picked up the phone. He berated me for only a moment, and 4 then said “You are like brother, Stanislaw. I am alibi for you, but remember about furniture.” After talking with him I played Sutton’s message back more than a few times. I liked her voice. Also her hesitation, the difficulty of winning her over. Though her prettiness accounted for at least fifty percent of my motivation. I looked around my studio, trying to see it as Sutton would. It was very small, with wood floors, radiators, big windows and not much sunlight. More importantly, there were no scarves, lipstick, lotion, jewelry, no feminine accoutrements; it was a “bachelor apartment,” as I’d said to her once, pointedly. There was just a bed, bookcases, stacks of books, desk, chair, cds. I did not own a television. Had Sutton noticed that? Had she noticed that I read the Village Voice? Had she noticed my pathetic lack of manners and how I stared at her? Doubtless. At 8:30 the next evening Sutton sat on a stool in my cramped kitchen with her legs crossed and her hand wrapped around a glass of merlot. She looked so unsuspecting in her little black minidress and tights. She hadn’t said anything about how clean my place was: I’d spent the day dusting, cleaning the bathroom, straightening the stacks of books. I had tossed crumpled pieces of paper around the desk, to show that I’d been working, and I’d tacked the new villanelle up on the wall. All this activity was, I must add, unprecedented (I had cleaned for no woman before her), and she didn’t notice any of it. “What is this you’re feeding me?” she asked, as I handed her a plate. 5 “Why, this is my effortless, casual lentil salad,” I said. I brought out bread and butter, then I sat on a stool next to her and raised my glass. “To you,” I said. She nodded and drank, as though men toasted her every day. I was sitting close enough to watch her chew, close enough to bump knees. It felt so intimate, eating with her. This was a thousand times more thrilling than any meal I’d had with Clara. “Are you nervous?” Sutton said. “Yes, actually.” “Why?” I supposed that now was the moment. I took a long drink of wine and refilled both our glasses. “I’m seeing someone. I’m not single.” There. I’d said it. Sutton looked at me for what seemed like an entire minute, as though she were waiting for me to finish my thought. “Really,” she said. “Well that’s interesting.” “I wanted to be honest with you,” I said, feeling magnanimous, and wondering when she was going to react. “You don’t act as though you’re seeing someone.” “Well I “You looked me up in the phone book, and we’d never met.” 6 “Yes, I did.

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