Contents ADULT FICTION Scott Craven........................................................................................ Visiting Hours 1 HIGH SCHOOL FICTION Grace Smith...................................................................................... The Giving Hole 9 Adult POETRY Maria Scudder................................................................................................. 432 Hz 16 HIGH SCHOOL POETRY Aliyapadi Hariadi................................................................................... To be Clever 19 ADULT NONFICTION Jennifer Priest Mitchell........................................................................ Stay With Me 21 COLLEGE NONFICTION Diane Tavoian.................................................................................. Without a Word 27 Visiting Hours Scott Craven ∙ ADULT FICTION ∙ He grasped the left side of the bow tie, the red one flecked with gold his wife loved so much, and gave it a slight tug. He lowered his hand and leaned toward the mirror. Better. His wife had gotten it for him, what was it, twenty years ago? No, twenty … seven. It was an anniversary present, forty-four years together, and not long after he’d retired. “Your job is over,” Beth had said as she knotted it under the collar of his red polo shirt. “But your life is far from done, so I’m not letting you quit who you are.” Though he’d tucked it to the back of his sock drawer, he was surprised how often he’d wear it. Especially now. And by God if he still didn’t make that tie look good. Before turning from the mirror, Paul eyed the childproof plastic bottle on the coffee table and the blessed relief that waited within. He ignored it, as he had many times before, knowing his muscles and joints would protest his decision with every step across the courtyard. So be it. He glanced at his watch, noting he had fifteen minutes. He’d need eleven of them to make the journey, giving him at least four minutes (if she was ready on time, and she rarely was) to recover in the lobby of the care home. Paul shuffled to the front door and paused, as he always did. Putting his right index and middle fingers to his lips, he kissed them and placed them on the lips of his darling Beth, whose smile beamed from his favorite of all the photos strategically placed so she’d always be in view no matter where he was in the tidy one-bedroom apartment. This one had been taken in in Vernazza, one of five villages of Italy’s Cinque Terre, during one of the many journeys they’d always promised themselves to take before time ran out. Though time did run out, of course, because it’s designed to. That didn’t make Paul feel any less cheated. The trip to Cinque Terre was the last one before … no, no, no. He focused on Beth’s image, the joy in her face. He knew they drew looks as they strolled down Vernazza’s narrow avenues. How cute they were, the doddering old couple still holding hands after all these years. They didn’t know the half of it. He squeezed his eyes shut, banishing what he called the “terrorist thoughts,” the ones always threatening to take Beth – the one in photos and memories – away from him. Opening his eyes he looked again at the photo filled with her smile, giving him the courage to step into the hallway and make his way to her. 1 Down the elevator, through his building’s common room and into the bright and op- pressive sunlight, following the twice-daily path carved over the years by instinct. He and Beth had fallen in love with Friendship Place the minute they saw it, pushing aside the shadows that brought them there in the first place. “Live for the moment,” Beth always reminded him when he descended into one of his moods. I always tried, he said to himself. I keep trying. It was his mantra, one that pushed him across the courtyard in peace. Most of the time. Some days were tougher than others. If Paul recalled correctly, this tough day was a Wednesday. Not that it mattered. Though they were married on a Wednesday. The two twenty-year-olds had no money for a reception, so friends and family gathered at a park on a scorching August afternoon. As Paul reminded Beth on every anniversary, he’d always walk through fire to be with her. They’d met in elementary school, not as kids but as adults (though how they loved telling people their eyes first met on a grade-school playground). He was working his way through col- lege as a janitor; she was in training as a teacher. It was love at no-later-than-third sight. Beth’s world soon was full of children, all shapes and sizes and ages during her forty-two years as a junior-high science teacher. Good thing, since they’d tried to have their own. Beth wanted a sizeable family. “I’m an only child,” she often said, “so it’s OK if we play a little biological catch-up.” Paul nodded on their wedding night when she whispered, “Two boys, two girls, how does that sound?” after the third time they’d made love. Paul nodded, wanting only that she would be as happy as he was. They tried for more than two years, Beth’s optimism carrying them through the first mis- carriage. Even after the second, Beth remained strong, Paul marveling at her strength. The third, though … it nearly destroyed Beth. Paul hid the depth of his despair, knowing his wife had suffered so much more. Though Beth would never admit it, Paul believed his wife would have chosen being a mom over having a career. Their loss was teaching’s gain, Beth devoting herself to students who rarely returned the favor. Not that she didn’t have her fans. Even today, she received Christmas cards from former students, and thank-you notes from the past. Often Beth would read those cards – she saved every one – and tell Paul, “Good thing we didn’t settle for just four kids.” Paul would smile, saying noth- ing at all. As his destination neared, Paul adjusted his bow tie before pulling out a handkerchief and mopping his brow. Maybe a hundred steps to go. He used to count them, an exercise to occupy a mind incapable of wandering into dangerous territory. Now the arthritis in his knees and hips kept his mind from straying, forcing him to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The gleaming white building welcomed him with the whoosh of sliding doors, enveloping Paul in cool air. He approached the front desk soundlessly, his burgundy wingtips sinking softly into the carpet with each step. The same smartly dressed woman who greeted he and Beth on their first visit another era ago looked up from her computer. 2 “Mr. Clevenger, on time as always,” she said. “I could set my watch to you.” Paul glanced at her wrist, which sported a glossy black square. One of those computer watches, things that could monitor your heart rate and check stock prices. He assumed they told time as well, just as he was sure mobile phones still made calls, even if that wasn’t their primary purpose. The world had moved past him, which was fine with Paul. “Ms. Sinclair, how is everything today?” he asked, his heart beating just a bit faster. There was a time when he and Veronica (Ronnie to her friends) Sinclair would have en- gaged in small talk, from the weather (hot) to last night’s entrée in the café (bland). Now it was down to business. “I just checked her chart,” Ms. Sinclair said, her eyes returning to the computer screen. “Quiet night, no accidents.” She tapped a few keys. “Took her meds this morning, but only ate half her oatmeal. We’re still a little concerned about her weight.” Paul nodded. Beth had always been lithe. Though she never had a problem with weight, she’d always started her day exercising to a thirty-minute Jazzercise tape. He could still recall each song in order. If he ever heard those tunes on the radio, he instinctively pictured Beth’s moves, memories forever linked to music. “She likes the maple-brown sugar oatmeal,” he said. “A touch of salt, a pat of butter on top. And you need to give it a minute or two to cool.” Ms. Sinclair’s fingers hovered above the keyboard. “Yes, I know. And Quaker.” Paul nodded again, though Ms. Sinclair didn’t look up. “If she still has a problem with breakfast, I’ll make sure to pass that on to staff,” she said. No you won’t, Paul thought. He knew the attendants thought of him as a troublemaker. He’d asked for flatter pillows because Beth couldn’t sleep if her head was propped up too high. They wouldn’t let him put her favorite rocking chair in her room for liability reasons. More than once, they caught him trying to sneak in a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, her favorite. “How’s her shoulder?” Paul asked. During his past few visits, he noticed Beth wince when she raised her right hand above her head. “We haven’t had it checked out,” Ms. Sinclair said. “If she were, you know, less resistant … but we did have one of our physical therapists manipulate the shoulder. Looks like tendinitis. She’ll keep an eye on it.” “Thank you.” Paul didn’t blame Beth for acting out, not just because she was confused. No one wants to be poked and prodded all the time. For the millionth time, Paul tried to convince himself this was the best place for his wife, one she had a hand in selecting.