"Quo Vadimus" - Letter from the Editor
We didn’t set out to give this issue, our late Winter addition, a theme. In thinking about the season and putting it into perspective with the current state of affairs and our identification as young adults or college students, a theme naturally emerged. Spring is a time of new beginnings, hope, and revival. Even when Upstate New York is bombarded with unexpected snowstorms, the electricity of this rebirth is in the air and we cannot help but anticipate the summer. Autumn speaks of nostalgia, whether or not we understand for what exactly we are nostalgic. College students settle down for another semester, still bearing the marks and experiences of summer, and greet each day that isn’t winter with gratitude. Summer is a time of exploration, of adventure, of breaking away from routine and risking exposure in the hopes of self-discovery. Every sensation is heightened, each action magnified, every thought or plan expedited. There is a reason people remorse the summer’s passing – it all happens too quickly.
Winter seems innately different. With all of the changes and growth of the other seasons, Winter feels like a freeze. In Winter, we retreat from our travels, we bundle up and hunker down and try to make it to Spring. Experience has taught us that all of our plans and ideals for the following months are never actually what pans out. So on top of this need for survival, mental and physical, is uncertainty. All we can do is wait. Time slows to a halt. Our wandering hearts seek asylum and comfort. They seek home.
This has been a particularly demanding Winter. Our group of Editors, the Peacemakers, now represents the spectrum of the college experience – freshmen to recent alum. Some of us are waiting to hear back from graduate schools, and some from potential employers. It is a rough time for our generation – jobs are harder and harder to come by, which has provoked more people to return to school, which hurts one’s chance of being accepted into a rigorous and prestigious program. Those of us in the workforce face the threat of layoffs and pay-cuts. Those of us in school feel the surmounting pressure to pursue a degree in a fortified field, to pick a career that isn’t at risk. We make plans, we try to imagine where our lives will take us in the upcoming year, but we really have no way to know where we will be in six months. If in February of 2008, someone had explained to me the dissonance between where I thought I’d be in August and what I actually ended up doing, I would not have believed them. Once Spring’s revival kicked in and the Summer’s speed took over, every game plan I had went out the window. And it’s no different now.
Soon-to-be and recent graduates struggle with the frustration at hand – there is only so much we can do. Winter is a time of riding out the storm, of waiting. Once we’ve finished our resumes and applications, the result is out of our hands. We wait for direction, we wait for change. I can’t say that Winter is a time of stagnation, because that implies some sort of free will. What it really is could be described as Suspended Animation. It takes courage to admit that sometimes we are stuck and have no choice other than to follow Napoleon’s Battle Plan: first show up, then see what happens. And so we wait, and we ask ourselves Quo Vadimus? “Where are we going?” Or, “Where do we go from here?”
If it is homeward, if that’s where our hearts are determined to wait out this suspended animation, where is home? What is home? A place? A person? Maybe it is just a frame of consciousness or frame of time (for me, Autumn feels most like home). What is home to young adults and students? Is it the house we were raised in? Is it the community in which we spent the first four years of our independence? I’ve found that my current cathexis of home is off kilter. During my freshman year, my heart would swell as I reached the eastern end of interstate 90 and could see the Boston skyline rise in the distance. Four years later, that same rush and relief takes over as I merge from 481 to 690 and look for exit 14. But there is no physical structure for me here that I can call my own anymore. So where is home?
Since this is our sophomore issue, the stories selected for this publication were not chosen for their content. We enjoyed these stories and hoped that our readers would, as well. It was only after we sat down to discuss logistics did we realize how all of these stories embody this notion of suspended animation and the quest to find home. Whether stuck in the early stages of adolescence or on the brink of “mid-life,” there are characters unable to control their environment or predict what follows. There are characters trying to understand, define, or come to terms with their concepts of home. They are trying to determine if it is a physical place or just an emotional investment in someone or something. There are characters whose homes face threat, and they struggle to restore that feeling of mental solace and physical safety that we all, to some degree, seek to maintain.
Kurt Vonnegut, the inspiration behind the name of this magazine, often quotes his son, Mark the Pediatrician, as saying that “We’re here to get each other through this thing, whatever it is.” I’m such a sucker for Vonnegut life-isms and this one ranks close to the top. But for now, for this issue, let’s just say that the Peacemakers are here to get each other and our readers through the Winter.
Lauren Picard
Editor–in–Chief
Darla Jean, Sixteen
By Jacqui Palumbo
It was a slow day at the Guthrie Convenience Store. Sixteen-year-old Darla Turner stood in the doorway, fanning herself with a piece of printer paper she’d folded forwards and backwards. The air conditioning had broken again this morning and the humidity pressed at her from all sides. Cigarette in mouth, she tied her dirty blonde hair into a ponytail and wiped the back of her neck with her hand. There hadn’t been any customers today except old Mrs. Covington, who bought a carton of cigarettes, despite the fact that the whole town knew she had emphysema, and Jimmy Barrows, who shyly bought a pack of condoms. Darla asked him if he knew how to put one on and his ears burned redder than a fever. “Good for you,” she said. “Glad Mary Ellen finally came around.”
Darla stubbed out her cigarette when she heard Dan Guthrie pull up back from lunch in his pick-up truck. Dan didn’t like her smoking at work so she hid the butt in the flower planter beside the door. There were six months worth of them in there but Dan’s eyesight was starting to go and he couldn’t see them all sticking out of the dirt like little steeples.
“Darla I can smell that from the Wal-Mart parking lot. Get back to the register.”
“Sorry Guthrie. It’s just so hot in there.”
“It’s hot everywhere. It’s August in Georgia; you expectin’ a snowstorm to fall out of the sky?” Guthrie’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. He’d hired Darla when she dropped out of high school to help put food on the table. Darla’s father had split a year ago and took nothing but the Honda and a suitcase full of clothes. There was no explanation except that Ellie Turner was a hard woman to please. Three times divorced now, Ellie worked as a waitress by the strip mall in the next town over. She and Darla didn’t agree on much.
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’.” Darla slipped her lighter into her back pocket and followed Guthrie inside, closing the screen door behind them. “Hey, Guthrie, you mind if I try on some mascara until the next customer shows up?”
“You don’t need any mascara. But I’ll let you take another nail color and I’ll tell you about my fishin’ trip on Sunday morning.” Guthrie took off his cap and sat down behind the counter while Darla walked to the back of the store to pick out a polish.
“So that’s why you weren’t in church?” she hollered, holding up two colors. Feisty Fuchsia and Pistol Pink. She took Pistol Pink and walked back to the cash register seat.
“I get enough prayin’ done while I wait for the fish to bite. There ain’t nothing more spiritual than being on the lake at sunrise. Sally wouldn’t have minded and she’s the only woman I’d ever allow to judge me.” He frowned for a second and Darla patted him on the shoulder. Sally and Guthrie were married for fifty years before she died. Darla couldn’t imagine fifty minutes ahead, much less fifty years. She took a seat next to Guthrie and painted her nails Pistol Pink while he spoke in his quiet drawl, describing the quiet morning with no one to bother him except the gulls circling overhead.
Jenny shot Darla a look when she saw the flask surface out of her backpack. “You brought enough for me this time, right?”
“Relax, Jenny. Hand me your milkshake.”
It was after work and Jenny had picked up Darla to go to the Dairy Queen. They sat at a booth and Darla absentmindedly blew on her nails back and forth after pouring a shot of rum into her and Jenny’s drinks. Guthrie didn’t sell top coat.
Jenny nudged Darla across the table. “Matthew Sanders is starin’ at us.”
Darla turned around and green-eyed Matt Sanders was in line, smiling at them. Darla had given him a blow job at the drive-in theater a week or two back and he’d gotten so flustered he hit the horn by accident—six times. Darla could tell by the way Jenny was looking at him that they’d fucked recently and she briefly wondered when it had happened. Jenny was naïve to think that sex was going to mean a proposal, Darla thought.
“He’s comin’ over here, Darla!” Jenny kicked her under the table. “Is my hair okay?”
Jenny’s straw-colored hair was always okay and her light eyes were pretty enough. Darla’s eyes were dark brown and sometimes she stood in her bathroom and pressed her nose up to the mirror to try and find another color in them that wasn’t so boring.
“It’s fine, Jen.” Darla sighed, but she pulled down her hair and ran a hand through it before he reached the table.
“Hey D.” Matt smiled directly at Darla. “What’re you doing tonight?”
Darla glanced sideways at Jenny, who shot her a look that she couldn’t read well.
“Nothing much. Probably goin’ with Jen somewhere.”
Matt looked over at Jenny. “Hey Jen, it’s good to see you.” He turned back to Darla. “You ever coming back to school?”
“I don’t know, I’m kinda liking the freedom.” It was a lie and Darla knew it. So did Jenny, who kicked her again.
“I’ll bring you my notes sometime if you want to catch up,” he offered.
Darla took a sip from her milkshake. “It’s okay Matt, really.”
“I’ll give you a call anyway. See you around D.”
Once he was gone, Jenny grabbed her wrist. “What the hell was that about Darla? Since when does Matt Sanders call you ‘D’ and ring you up at home?’”
“It was nothin’. He was just bein’ nice.” Darla grabbed her wrist away. “I’ve gotta get home Ellie will be waitin’.”
They left the Dairy Queen and got in Jenny’s car. Jenny didn’t speak to her so Darla turned up the radio and closed her eyes. She didn’t care nearly enough about Matthew Sanders. She wanted to say to Jenny, Don’t worry, you ain’t missin’ out, but she figured that would just set her off again.
“Darla, honey, have you seen my tweezers?” Ellie Turner was in her bathrobe when Darla came home. She had pink rollers in her blonde hair and a Virginia Slim dangling from her mouth.
Darla hadn’t even opened the screen door yet. “They’re either on your soap dish or beside your bed.”
“I checked there. If I have to buy one more pair I just won’t be able to pay the rent anymore.” Ellie sighed and walked into her bedroom.
Darla rolled her eyes and stepped inside. The door banged shut behind her and she cringed. She and Ellie lived in a tiny two-bedroom house with moldy green shag carpeting from the seventies. The walls were tan and the furniture all dark brown wood from a secondhand furniture store off the highway. Ellie owned a small white poodle, Sugar, who ran into the room and started barking at Darla. Darla scooped her up and Sugar nipped at her cheek.
“What’s wrong Sugar?” Ellie came back in with half her curlers taken out and a mascara brush in your hand. “Darla, give her to me. You know she doesn’t like to be held like that.” She took Sugar from Darla’s arms and cradled her. “Hello there baby!”
“Ma you’re getting mascara on the dog.”
“Shit!” She put Sugar down, now streaked with black on one side.
“I’ll take care of it.” Darla scooped the dog up again and went to the kitchen. While scrubbing at her with a sponge and soap, she yelled, “Is there anything for dinner?”
Ellie appeared in the doorway, her eyes wet.
“What’s wrong?” Darla asked. Her body tensed. She was used to Ellie crying at all sorts of things, but it was hard to tell what was going to trigger her outbursts. Last week she’d forgotten to take out the trash and Ellie had accused her of being intentionally hateful.
“I have been working every night, bustin’ my ass for you, Darla Jean, and you have asked me about dinner for the past three days and I keep tellin’ you that I don’t have time. You’re barely here anymore anyway so I don’t see why it matters.”
“I’ve been working Ma,” Darla said quietly. Her cheeks were starting to heat up.
“We were doing just fine Darla. It was your decision to drop out of school, and don’t tell me you were doing it out of the goodness of your heart. You were failing every single class and rumors were flying that you slept with your history teacher! I just don’t know what to do with you sometimes.”
“The electricity was out because you hadn’t paid the bill in three months, Ellie. We were not doing fine.” Darla finished scrubbing Sugar and set her down on the ground. Sugar shook the water off and ran into the living room.
Ellie took the rest of the curlers out of her hair and threw them on the kitchen floor. “You are so ungrateful. Do you think I like working as a goddamned waitress, gettin’ my ass pinched by every truck driver in the state of Georgia? Living in an apartment that is not fit for Sugar and us? You’re not makin’ my life any easier, Darla. I ought to send you somewhere to get your priorities figured out.”
Darla’s cheeks were burning and she knew if she stayed a second longer she was going to lash out. She had learned to keep her mouth shut over the years. Ellie was a brewing hurricane. She pushed past her and left the apartment, walking the half-mile down to Jenny’s. She knocked on the door and Jenny opened it almost immediately.
“I guess you’re mad at me, but can you get over it? Ellie’s at it again and I don’t need to be at home right now,” Darla said.
Jenny sighed and mulled it over. “Yeah, alright. But stop makin’ eyes at Matt Sanders. You know I’ve liked him since the sixth grade. You wanna smoke a joint in the woods out back?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“All right, come inside. Mom and Dad are in the TV room if you want to say hi while I go roll it.” Jenny let her in and then hollered, “Darla’s here! Everyone decent?”
“Yes, honey. Come on in, Darla,” Jenny’s mother answered. The Taylor household was large and clean. Pictures of Jenny and her older brother David filled the shelves and walls. David was a Marine and every time he had come home in the past two years, he’d tried to sleep with Darla, but she’d never told that to Jenny. It was a line she wouldn’t cross, even for David’s blue eyes.
Darla walked into the TV room. Catherine and Ron Taylor had been married for twenty-two years. Catherine had a round, but pretty face and bangs that she teased for half an hour every morning. Ron had a salt and pepper mustache and wore a polo shirt every day of his life. He sat next to her on the couch with his arm around her like they were still in high school. The Cosby Show was on.
“How have you been, sweetie? Are you still working for Mr. Guthrie?”
“Yes. I’m doin’ well. Trying to make a little more money before I enroll back in school.” Darla forced a smile. Her anger had subsided, but it was still there, lingering.
“Hope you start up soon. Seems like you can’t get a decent job nowadays without a college degree. I know Ellie’s havin’ a rough time,” Catherine said sympathetically.
“Darla, would you like to sit down and watch with us until Jenny is ready? You know that girl moves like a snail on a hot day,” Ron said.
Darla sat down and they watched in a comfortable silence. She often thought that Jenny didn’t know how lucky she was to have a little normalcy to come home to. Ellie always calmed down whenever she was dating someone new and Darla wished she’d remarry just to have someone to balance her out.
A few minutes later Jenny appeared. “You want to head out, Darla?”
“Where are you girls going again?” Catherine asked.
“Oh, we’re just headin’ over to the bowling alley to meet up with some girls. We won’t be back late.”
Catherine nodded. “Have a good time.”
Darla stood up. They left through the front door, but circled around to the back of the house and went into the woods instead. It had become a weekend tradition for the two of them. The sun was almost set, but the two girls had played in these trees since kindergarten and easily navigated their way to the creek a little ways in. They reached the oak that had their initials carved and re-carved over the years and climbed onto the lowest branch to sit. Jenny sparked the joint and they sat in silence for a moment, listening to the crickets chirp.
“Darla… Did you sleep with Matt?”
She knew this was coming. Jenny handed her the joint and she inhaled it deeply.
“Darla, answer me. Did you-?”
“No. We just fooled around a little at the drive-in a couple of weeks ago,” she admitted.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had sex with him?” Darla shot back. “I could figure it out real easy you know.”
Jenny was quiet. Darla passed the joint back to her.
“Come on Jen, you used to tell me when a boy tried to kiss you and unsnap your bra and now you keep it quiet like I’m not important enough to know.”
“Darla, don’t take this the wrong way, please, but… I just feel like you think you’re above it all.”
“What does that mean?” Darla looked away from Jenny, towards the creek. The moon was out now and it wavered in between the trees unsteadily. She thought she saw something pink out by the water.
“Somethin’ changed once those rumors went around about Mr. Bennett. You still haven’t told me if it was true or false but I just trusted you wouldn’t do somethin’ so wrong.” She stopped. “I mean, did you or didn’t you?”
“It… it wasn’t like that.”
“It’s a yes or no answer! God Darla, maybe I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.” Jenny took a drag and Darla knew that she was waiting for assurance. But she didn’t have any. Jenny knew her better than anyone, but remembering the quiet moments in Mr. Bennett’s office displaced her.
“It’s hard to explain…” Darla trailed off. There was surely something underneath their conversations, in the fleeting moments when he couldn’t help but stroke the line of her jaw or the curve of her cheek. But Darla had never asked for anything more; and nothing more had been given.
“Me sleepin’ with Matt Sanders is just child’s play compared to what you’ve probably done,” Jenny scoffed. “You think I’m silly and don’t deny it, Darla. I’m not dumb.” She folded her arms across her chest.
Darla wasn’t looking at her still. She was trying to focus her eyes on the pink glimmer by the creek.
“Are you even listening to me?” Jenny asked.
“Jen, do you see that out there?” The clouds cleared up and the moonlight shown down stronger.
“Will you quit tryin’ to change the subject on me?”
“I’m bein’ serious.” Darla leaned towards her and grabbed hold of her to keep from falling.
“What? Where?” Jen strained her neck to look over to where Darla was pointing. “Is that a – a girl?”
Darla squinted and she could now make out a head of blonde hair lying in the dirt. “We need to get down from here and go take a look.”
They climbed down and Jenny stubbed out the rest of the joint in the dirt. They walked along the creek. The air was still thick and Darla’s heart started beating harder the closer they got.
“Darla …is she dead?”
The girl was laid out in the dirt with a pink cardigan on and nothing else. Her thighs were bruised and deep purple marks were on her neck. Darla was certain her heart could be heard by the next town over. She felt woozy and grabbed Jenny’s arm to keep steady. She took a deep breath and knelt down beside the girl. Her hair was blonde and matted with leaves and her eyes were closed. She was pretty and simple looking. Darla touched her leg. It was cold and stiff.
“Yeah she’s dead.” Darla swallowed. Her stomach churned.
“Oh my God, we’ve got to call someone. I’ll run and get my parents to call the police. Could you stay here?”
“Jen, I don’t think--”
“Please – I’ll just be a second.”
“What if whoever did this comes back?” Darla hissed, but Jenny had already turned around and was running towards her house.
Darla started to follow her but found it hard to move. She looked back at the girl, as if to make sure she was still there. She didn’t look real; the moonlight seemed to shine through her skin like white translucent film. Darla had never understood why people craned their heads out their car windows to see the aftermath of collisions, but now she felt it. She inched forward to look at her face again. There was a small mole on the edge of her left eye and a thin, crescent scar on her upper lip, like an afterthought to her mouth. Darla wiped her eyes before she realized she was crying, the unfamiliarity surprising her. She sat down, pushing herself away from the girl, the dirt running between her fingers. The last time she had cried was last summer, when her father had packed up and gone. Ellie had been stoic, even trying to make brownies from scratch. The house had nearly burned down so Darla felt obligated to eat them. She felt a strange longing for Ellie suddenly.
Darla couldn’t tear her eyes away from the girl. The clouds had begun to roll in and her skin was no longer glowing. Darla picked up a twig beside her and started slowly tracing the earth around her. She tried to give her a name, or a home. The towns nearby would surely report a missing girl. Especially a pretty girl. Darla chastised herself for being shallow, but she knew there was truth to it.
It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before the flashlights shined through the trees but it seemed much longer.
“Darla!” Ron Taylor’s voice echoed through the woods.
“I’m here.” Darla’s voice was thick and raspy. She cleared it. “I’m over here Ron!”
“Jenny, how could you leave the poor girl out here by herself?” Darla heard Ron say, but didn’t hear Jenny’s response. They reached her a second later. Darla stood up and brushed the leaves off the seat of her pants. She couldn’t help but glance back at the dead girl, and a wave of nausea ran through her again. She closed her eyes for a second.
“Darla, are you okay?” Jenny asked, taking her arm.
“I’m fine, Jen.”
“The police are comin’ right now, Darla. Jenny, take her inside and let her lie down before she passes out on us. I’ll wait here.” Ron took a long look at the girl. “Can’t believe this happened right behind our house. It’s a damn shame.” He shook his head.
Jenny looped her arm around Darla’s waist and they walked back to the house together in silence.
That night, Darla didn’t sleep well. Every time she closed her eyes she could see the girl lying in the leaves, her pink cardigan and pale skin haunting in the moonlight. She had vivid dreams where the girl was sitting beside her and Jenny in a booth at Dairy Queen, laughing over the boys she’d dated. She was behind the counter, asking Guthrie how his day was. She was comforting Ellie with Sugar in her lap. Darla woke up, gasping. Her body was feverish and pulled the sheets from her sweating body. She rolled over. It was 2:30 am.
Darla stood up and walked to Ellie’s room. Her bed was still made and Sugar was nestled in the pillows. Darla went to the kitchen and rang up Jenny, who groggily told her she’d come pick her up in a few. She put on a pair of jeans and flip-flops and sat by the front door until she saw the headlights turning into her driveway.
“Are you okay?” Jenny asked Darla when she opened the door and slid in.
“Ellie still isn’t home from work, that’s all,” Darla said. “Did the police come to your house again?”
“No, they still don’t know anything, I guess.”
Darla and Jenny both had been questioned when the police arrived to move the body and collect evidence. Darla wondered where the girl was now and it sent a cold shiver up her spine.
“Are you sure you want to come to my house? The police haven’t been back, but half the town has come by. It’s a goddamn circus, Darla. We should stay here.”
Darla nodded. Jenny parked the car and they went inside. After Darla got back into bed, she lay with her eyes open until sunrise, long after Jenny’s breathing had turned slow and deep.
The next week dragged on with the rising temperatures. Darla went through the motions, going to work every morning and coming straight home to sleep. She stopped taking Jenny’s calls because the dead girl herself seemed to hang heavy in their conversations. After two days of silence, Ellie even began leaving food for her outside her door. Ellie finally came inside her room one night as Darla lay in a half-awake, half-asleep state.
“Darla, Officer Thompkins is on the phone and wants to speak with you,” Ellie said.
Darla rolled over. She was so tired of this. “All right I’ll take it in here.” She picked up her phone by the bed and Ellie left the room.
It wasn’t more questioning, as Darla had expected. Instead, Officer Thompkins informed her that a memorial service was going to be held this Sunday. The girl still had yet to be identified. “It’s sad, but it looks like this is just another Jane Doe,” he said before hanging up. “You take care now, Darla.”
Darla sat up and rubbed her eyes. Her room looked hazy. She picked up her phone again and called Jenny. She picked up on the first ring.
“Why haven’t you been calling me back?”
“I am now.”
“Are you all right?”
Darla sighed. “I’m fine. Listen, this Sunday there’s a funeral for… the girl. Do you want to come with me?”
There was a pause. “Darla, you didn’t even know her.”
“No one will be at the funeral though,” Darla said. She chewed on a fingernail and a bright line of blood washed over her cuticle. She watched it ebb against her skin for a moment, then wiped it on her sheets.
“Everyone will be at the funeral. The whole town is actin’ like they were best friends with her now.”
“But no one she knows will be there. Jenny, how would you like it if no one you knew showed up at your funeral?” Darla’s voice cracked. “They don’t know who she is and they’re not even tryin’ to find out anymore.”
“You didn’t know her either! You are a mess over this. Let’s just go to the mall on Sunday and--”
“I don’t want to go to the mall. Forget it.” Darla hung up the phone and stood up. She looked at the tiny streak of blood on the bed and ripped the sheets off, watching as they settled to the floor.
“Does that mean you want me to do laundry?”
Darla jumped, startled by Ellie’s voice. She was leaning in the doorway.
“I do the laundry,” Darla snapped.
“Honey, that’s only because I’m bad at it,” she sighed. “Do you want a cigarette? You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”
Ellie never let Darla smoke inside the house, despite the fact she did it all the time.
“You never let me smoke inside.”
“That’s only because I don’t want you to smoke at all. But you don’t ever listen to me anyways, so here.” She held out a Virginia Slim.
“I hate those.”
“Take it or leave it.”
Darla took the cigarette.
“Let’s go watch a rerun or somethin’ with Sugar. Is that okay with you, Darlin’ Darla?”
Darla hated that nickname, but she tried to smile. She and Ellie walked into the living room and sat down on the brown couch. Ellie patted the seat next to her and Sugar jumped up, a black streak still faintly visible in her fur. She turned on the television.
“Ellie, I swear sometimes you named me just because it sounded like Darlin’.” Darla grabbed a lighter off of the coffee table and lit her cigarette, then handed it to Ellie. It flickered twice before lighting.
“Yes, I did. It’s what your father used to call me… before he turned into a prick.”
Ellie took a drag. “You’re a much better Darlin’ than I ever was anyway.”
Ellie began snoring a little while later, her burnt out cigarette still in hand. Darla moved it and draped a shaggy beige blanket on her. Ellie stretched out on the couch, murmuring slightly. Darla found another blanket and a pillow and lay down on the floor, turning off the television before falling asleep.
On Sunday, the heat finally broke. Darla wore a simple black dress. As she waited for Ellie to finish teasing her hair, Darla looked in the mirror by the front door, trying to pick an eyelash out of her eye. She watered up when she touched it and blinked a couple of times to get the tears out. She looked worn out, and she felt it too.
A car honked outside. “Ma! Guthrie’s here!” Darla hollered.
“Coming!” Ellie appeared from the bedroom, sliding on her heels. “Couldn’t get my bangs to sit right. Darla, you look so pretty.”
Darla wanted to thank Ellie for coming but she’d never been too good at that. She gave her a small smile and they left the house and got into Guthrie’s pickup truck. Darla sat in the middle.
“Thanks for taking us, Dan,” Ellie said, flipping down the mirror to apply her lipstick.
“Of course,” Guthrie replied. He gave Darla a pat on the hand. “Can’t say no to Darla.”
When they arrived at the chapel a mile away, the parking lot was full. Jenny was right, but it wasn’t just their town. There were people there from halfway to Atlanta, all paying their respects to Jane Doe. The Priest was Matthew Sanders’ father and Darla turned beet red for a moment. She stood between Ellie and Guthrie and looked straight ahead. There was no casket, and she was glad for that. The service was short, but a few minutes into it, Ellie started quietly crying. Darla leaned her head against Ellie’s shoulder because she didn’t know what else to do. Guthrie handed her a tissue. Jack Sanders only read scripture. At the end, Darla realized that nothing about this girl had been said, and nothing ever would be.
On the way home, nothing had changed. Darla peered out the window at the small store-lined street, at the people she had known since birth. Such a small town; everyone knew Darla, but no one knew of the girl except what they had read in the local papers. And no one came to claim her. Darla’s eyes burned a little, but that faded along with the service, as if it had never happened at all.
That night, Darla sat on the front porch with a cigarette and a bottle of Pistol Pink nail polish, reapplying it to her toes. Guthrie had stayed for dinner and he and Ellie were inside, talking still. Darla stared out onto the road. The wind was lightly blowing and it was making the trees brush against each other gently, back and forth. She remembered back when she was a kid and she and Jenny used to go out to Guthrie’s lake house and swim until the sun grew too hot on their skin.
The door opened and Guthrie stepped out. Darla was on her pinky toe and accidentally smudged it.
“You take care now,” Guthrie said, taking his truck keys out of his pocket.
Darla was silent for a moment, taking a drag from her cigarette.
“Guthrie… you remember when Jenny and I were tryin’ to catch fireflies by your lake and I fell in?”
“Yes I do. You gave me heart attacks then and you give me heart attacks now.”
“I never did know who pulled me out of there. It was you wasn’t it?”
Guthrie shook his head. “That was Ellie. You were unconscious for over fifteen minutes and I’ve never seen her so scared in my whole life. She got into that lake faster’n you can say anything and hauled you out in her high heels.” He wiped his brow. “Why are you thinkin’ of that now?”
Darla shrugged. “It was just somethin’ I was tryin’ to remember, that’s all.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow mornin’ Darla,” Guthrie said. Then he got in his truck and was gone.
Darla watched the dust from his tires blow up into the night air. It was a little cool out and she shivered while she finished painting her toes. The pink color reminded her of the dead girl’s cardigan. She closed her eyes and she was ten years old again, looking out onto the lake below her. Her arms were freckled from the sun and Jenny was beside her. “I dare you to jump, Darla.” And she did.
Her cigarette was almost burned down. Darla put the cap back on the nail polish and stood up, admiring the color against the wood floor. She took a last drag and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray beside her. Then she went inside.
Heterochromia
By Jeannie Smith
The walk to the chapel felt longer than usual. Rain pelted Danielle’s arms. She shuffled her hands inside the pockets of her windbreaker and slowed her pace. Outside the chapel, the rain hit the ground like a drum roll. She tilted her head to look towards the roof, but the shower blinded her. Wiping her eyes, she clenched her hands and shoved them back into her pockets and neared the chapel entrance.
Pulling the door open, a rush of cold air swept by her. Danielle froze in the threshold, her body shaking with chills. She pressed forward, pushing the hood of her jacket from her head, listening to the soles of her boots squeak on linoleum. The hall was dimly lit, the pastel glow of stained glass windows reflecting on the walls. She paused before one of them, seeing past the glass. Outside the wind picked up and the branches of a tree clawed against the window. Behind her she heard the door open and a man entered. He removed his coat and shook it, water spraying all over the wall and on the floor.
“It’s really coming down out there, huh?”
Danielle nodded her head. “The beginning of spring.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I was just passing and I really need to use the bathroom. Would you mind telling me where the men’s room is?”
Danielle directed him to a set of stairs and told him where to go.
“Thanks.” He bowed his head and disappeared up the stairs. That was odd, Danielle thought and continued towards the chapel.
Inside the atrium Danielle went to her usual spot. Third row, slightly to the left facing the stage. She was alone. The rain outside was muted by the silence filling the expanse of the chapel. It was on the stage, in the pews behind her, in front of her. The silence sat beside her on the red cushion of the pew. Danielle bit her lower lip as she read the engraved scripture on her bracelet. Her brother gave it to her before he died. The silver was cool against her skin and shimmered under what little light emanated through the small round window at the apex of the dome shaped roof. She twirled the bracelet around her wrist. The image of her dead brother lying in the kitchen surfaced to her mind. She twirled the bracelet around her wrist faster as she remembered that day two weeks prior. She knew she was torturing herself, allowing the memory to etch itself permanently in her mind. It was as if the memory possessed her, took over her. She tried not to blame herself, but someone needed to be responsible, right?
“Shit, shit, shit,” she stuttered, yanking on the bracelet so hard so hard that it snapped apart where it clasped. The metal fell between her feet.
“No, no,” she quickly lowered to her knees to collect the now scattered pieces. Looking at the now broken bracelet, she herself broke down. Two weeks of pent up anger and fear poured out of her. She shoved the bracelet remains into her pocket and punched the seat of the pew.
“Why would you do this to me?” She lowered her face into the seat and cried. She cried so loudly that she didn’t hear the footsteps stop near her row.
Suddenly she stopped crying and looked up. It was the man looking for the bathroom. Did he get lost? It’s not that hard to miss. It’s got a sign on the door. His coat was draped over his arm, an apple in his hand. He looked down to Danielle on the floor. Danielle didn’t know what to say. She figured he’d leave after doing his business in the bathroom. Was she that loud?
She grew embarrassed and more conscious of how she looked, on the floor, with snot running down her face. She wiped her face with her sleeve and pushed herself back up onto the pew. She smoothed her hands over her thighs and took a deep breath in.
“Did you find the bathroom alright?”
He didn’t respond. He laid his jacket across the back of the pew and continued to stare at Danielle. Danielle started to fidget and became more uncomfortable. There wasn’t anyone here, so she assumed. It was a Thursday afternoon. She slowly raised her eyes to him and charted the chapel in her head, preparing to run.
She watched his chest rise and lower, heard his breath stream through his nostrils and whistle through the slither of his mouth. But his eyes – they weren’t normal. One eye was hazel, the other a deep brown, almost black. She focused on the darker iris.
“Heterochromia.”
The sound of his voice, though low, was like a sonic boom to Danielle. Her heart raced and her palms began to sweat.
“I’m sorry?”
“Heterochromia,” he said slowly. “It’s a condition when people have two colored eyes. I thought you were staring because of it.”
“No, I mean, yes, but I didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn’t.”
The silence created a pressure on the back of Danielle’s neck. Like a permanent weight, Danielle flinched as if to shove it off, but it stuck. She felt it when she first came into the chapel, even more when she first saw him but paid it no mind. Now, it was hurting.
He reached out the apple he was holding to her. “Would you like?”
Danielle shook her head. “No, thank you.”
He shrugged his shoulders and bit into the apple. The smashing of his molars grinding on chunks of apple synchronized to the ebbing pain that pulsed through her body. It was as if his presence created turmoil in her physical being.
He sat down beside her. She scooted over a bit, creating a protective amount of space between them.
“So you want to talk about it?”
Danielle didn’t respond.
“Or not,” he spoke for her.
He took another bite of his apple, Danielle watching the profile of his face, his cheek facing her, protruding as he again ground the apple to sugar and enzymes, as she again felt the wave of fire sear through her.
He swallowed loudly. He cleared his throat and looked straight forward before speaking.
“It’s not like your brother was a saint, Danielle.”
Again, her heart sped and sweat pooled in her hands.
“You can’t expect God to forgive him. After all, he did this to himself. Isn’t that what you predicted before he became a drug lord?”
He faced her. “If my memory serves me correctly, you said ‘He’s going to get hurt, if not killed. And you know what, he deserves it.’ Is that not what you said?”
Danielle remained still, frightened.
“Who are you?”
“Your brother stole life, Danielle. He sold life, Danielle. Your brother bargained with the wrong people and in selling life sold his own. How can you pity him?”
Danielle zipped her coat and stood up. “Sir, I don’t know you and I don’t know how you know me and about my brother, but you have no right to sit here and judge my brother, nor judge me.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “You’re absolutely right. I can’t. That’s the Big Guy’s job.” Under his breath he muttered, “Always has been.”
Danielle backed out of the pew and tried to walk out of the chapel, but his voice made it feel like the door was miles away.
“You can’t grieve self-destruction. It becomes your own, you know.” From where she stood, she heard him bite his apple, smelled its sweetness, felt its texture brush the inside of his mouth. As she neared the exit, Danielle spat into her hand. Pieces of apple came out of her mouth and onto the floor. The taste was sour and acidic. She jumped away from the pile of fruit fell into the last pew of the chapel. She looked back at him, sitting in the third pew, staring at the back of his head. He lowered his head a bit and stood up, walking the length of the aisle. A whole row of pews now separated them.
“I can’t explain to you how sad it is to see someone like you fall so easily into your own bear trap. For instance, you come to this chapel, you come to God, and seek some spiritual release for your pain. Don’t you know that God doesn’t hear the prayers of those who wish bad upon someone else?”
“I never wished evil upon anyone.”
“You said it yourself. And I quote, ‘He’s going to get hurt, if not killed. And you know what, he deserves it.’ Is that not what you said, Danielle?”
“No, I didn’t mean it.”
“But you said it. ‘Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“‘Keep your mouth from speaking deceit, your tongue from speaking evil.’”
“You can’t turn this against me.”
Danielle covered her ears and closed her eyes. Her back was pressed against the pew. She lowered her head into her lap. He sat beside her. Laying an arm across the back of the pew, he lowered his head above the back of her neck and whispered, “You brought this evil yourself. You released the power. My only job is to see it through. You wanted him to either quit selling, or die. Is that not correct?”
“STOP IT! Stop doing this. Stop it.” Danielle flayed her arms at him. “Stop it. Leave me be.”
“Danielle.”
“No, stop it, don’t touch me. Leave me alone.”
“Danielle, relax. It’s me.”
Danielle stopped swinging her arms and opened her eyes. It was Henry, the chapel’s janitor and a volunteer usher during Sunday services. “It’s me, Henry.”
Danielle settled, but her heart was pounding in her ears. She looked around the chapel for the man. “Where is he?”
Henry looked confused. “Where is who?”
“The man. The man who was just here. Where is he?”
Henry rubbed the side of Danielle’s arms. “Hun, there was nobody here. I came in and only saw you sitting here, screaming.”
Danielle jumped from her seat. “No, no, no. There was a guy sitting right here, right next to me.”
“There was no one…”
“He was sitting right here, Henry.”
Danielle searched Henry’s face, a sign of belief. There was none.
“Danielle, let me take you home, okay?”
“No, I can walk.”
“No,” Henry’s voice rose, “I will take you home.”
They walked towards the main corridor of the chapel. The pile of apple on the floor was gone. Henry left to grab his coat and car keys. Danielle leaned against the wall, staring out the stained glass window. One of the images was Calvary and a figure in the glass stared back at her, his eyes two different colored pieces of glass.
Henry returned and stood beside her, staring at the window. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe that He saved me from the life He did. I feel His presence all the time.”
Danielle didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know whose presence she felt the most.
Stick With Your Own
By Carolyn McChesney
He turned his head away from her.
She didn’t get it. She squirmed. The metal fold-up chair scraped the floor and let out an irritating screech.
He remembered the first time she waltzed into the overpriced grocery store. He wanted to hate her. She was cute. Even said her name was cute. Molly. Cute. But that wasn’t what kept him from hating her. He wasn’t that shallow.
On the surface, Molly reminded him of the WASPs from high school. The pin-legged, blonde, raccoon-eyed girls whose skirts hid under their boyfriends’ letterman jackets. The girls who snapped their gum at him and giggled at his Mexican accent when he tried to read Shakespeare in Mr. Kardazi’s freshmen English class. The girls who only spoke to him when they needed aye-OOO-dah with their Spanish homework.
He couldn’t have been happier to graduate last year. Not because he felt accomplished. Because he felt free. He was finally free from the taunting at school and the arguments at home. Manny had wanted to drop out of high school his freshman year like the majority of his friends, but his parents wouldn’t allow it. To them, a high school diploma was something spectacular. But Manny knew otherwise. He had his diploma and look what it had done for him. After nearly three years at The Market, he was now a fulltime employee rather than a part-time high school kid. He didn’t need a diploma to do that. Manny knew it took a college degree to actually get out of The Market. But that wasn’t an option for him.
Manny gave Molly a quick scan. She was definitely different from the other American girls he knew. She boasted dull, dishwater hair, didn’t do the whole makeup thing, and dressed and acted much more conservatively than the other high school girls.
Manny’s parents had made him finish high school. Not that it mattered; the diploma hadn’t done shit for him. Actually, in his eyes, he was four years behind. Look at him, working in the meat department of The Market. His sister busted her ass fifty-three hours a week behind the deli counter across the store. She had grown up fast, married at sixteen, popped out two kids by her eighteenth birthday. She had been working at The Market since she was fourteen and had saved a decent stash of money.
“Manny, I think we should figure out what we’re going to say.”
Jesus. Why couldn’t she just shut up?
“Manny?”
“Shit. What?” He didn’t mean swear in front of her.
Molly’s eyebrows scrunched slightly and her eyes grew larger. She looked like a confused puppy. She reminded him of the stupid mutt that followed him home last year, pissed in his room, and then tried to look all innocent just as he wound up to kick him. He chuckled and then caught himself. He could never treat her badly—no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.
Her face softened. She looked relieved. Damn it. Why’d he laugh? Shit. This was serious.
“Okay, I think we should just tell them we are really, really sorry.”
She waited for him to respond.
He kept her waiting.
“Manny?”
He leaned back in the metal chair, rocking it back and forth, staring at the ceiling. If he didn’t make eye contact, she wouldn’t have any control over him.
“Manny, seriously. Alyson’s gonna want to know why the cake was in the deli cooler. What are you going to say? Our stories have to match. We won’t get in as much trouble then.”
He raised one eyebrow at her.
“Manny!”
She looked pissed now. She was even cuter when she was mad. He’d never seen her this upset before, and he scolded himself for finding her distress attractive.
“Chill out.”
“Chill out?” she shrieked. “What makes you think I’m not…chill?”
“You’re sweating.”
She blushed and flashed a nervous smile at him.
He couldn’t look away. Her perfectly orthodontia-ed mouth made him queasy. But he told himself her smile didn’t mean anything. Coming from any other girl, Manny would have accepted the lip-glossed smirk as an invitation to something more. But Molly didn’t work that way.
After graduating high school, Manny found that most girls he knew, Mexican and American alike, openly flirted with him. He didn’t blame them. He was a handsome guy. They were loud and touchy and forward. But Molly treated him just like she treated everyone else at The Market. She sang good morning to him when they punched in at 7:00. She smiled at him every time they passed each other in the back room. Occasionally, she let a sarcastic dig slip from her mouth during their lunch break. She said goodnight to him when they closed. But she did and said all that to every other employee, too. So what was he supposed to think?
Nothing. That’s what Jorge, Manny’s cousin who worked as a cashier, said anyway. Jorge constantly reminded Manny that Molly would be gone at the end of the summer and that even if she wasn’t going off to some expensive East Coast school, Manny still didn’t have a shot with her. “Stick to your own,” Jorge yelled across the store whenever he caught Manny staring at Molly.
Currently, Manny stared at the clavicle peeking out of her uniform polo shirt. Beads of sweat shined in the light, making the protruding bone look more pronounced than usual.
She noticed his gaze and buttoned her shirt a little higher.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
He allowed his eyes to meet hers.
Damn. She was smiling again.
“Now seriously, practice what you’re going to say.” She straightened up in the chair.
“Why do you care what I say?”
Molly looked taken aback.
“Why do you care?” he repeated.
“I—I don’t want—I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Why not?”
She was stunned.
“I don’t know…because I don’t like to be in trouble…”
“Huh,” he nodded. He was a moron. Why couldn’t he just talk to her? Why was he such a jerk? Other than stealing a cake for him today, she had never done anything to hurt him; and he knew she never meant for them to get caught.
Alyson entered the back room. She had left them waiting for a long time after finding the cake in the deli cooler and requesting their presence in the back room over the PA system. She probably didn’t really know what to do and needed a cigarette break to help her figure it all out. Sure enough, a wave of cigarette perfume trailed behind the store manager as she passed by Manny and Molly and disappeared into the deli cooler. Alyson emerged from the cooler and placed the cake on the table in between Manny and Molly.
“Who wants to explain this?” she asked.
The cake was hideous. Molly’s attempt to write with icing had been futile. A smeared, Hoppy Birtnday, Momy! littered the surface of the once beautiful cake.
“I was just trying to do something nice,” Molly said.
Alyson looked at her blankly. Alyson was new to The Market, which meant she was still a by-the-books manager. Manny had seen her kind before. The Market’s turnover rate was impressive. Generally, it took about sixth months for the new store managers to realize Corporate didn’t give a crap about them or their career aspirations, at which point the managers would then become human again and view themselves as equals with the other employees. Five months from now, Alyson probably would have been cutting the cake herself. But Molly didn’t understand the timeframe.
“You stole company property,” Alyson said.
Molly looked at the floor. Then at Manny. Then at Alyson.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
She looked frozen and lost. She was a smart girl, Manny knew that. He could tell by the way she carried herself. She was always confident, but not cocky. But now, sitting in the back room with Alyson and her, something was different. He had never seen her look so vulnerable.
“I have to let you go,” Alyson said.
Manny felt his heart leap into his throat.
“Who?” he stammered.
“Both of you.”
Molly gasped. “But he didn’t do anything. He didn’t even know. It was gonna be a surprise.”
Alyson ignored Molly and turned to Manny. He could see it in her face. She knew.
“Molly, you are free to go. Please leave your badge on my desk. Manny, we need to talk.”
Manny felt nauseous as he watched Molly leave the back room.
Alyson marched over to the file cabinet and pulled a few papers from the thick binder with Employee Info stamped on the side. He knew what was coming.
“Manny, before I discovered you weren’t really involved, I went ahead and reviewed your paperwork.”
Manny didn’t respond. The silence must have made Alyson uncomfortable because she filled it quickly.
“I couldn’t really make out the last number of your social security number, so I tried entering every number into its spot on the computer and waited for your name to pop up.”
He couldn’t breathe.
“Manny, do you have a social security number?”
Manny’s eyes fell to the floor and his head followed suit. He wanted his head to swing up, to attempt to nod. But it wouldn’t. It couldn’t.
“I know the last manager was a little more…lenient about this kind of stuff,” Alyson continued. “But you know that’s why he’s no longer here.”
Now, Manny could nod. Frank, The Market’s former manager, had hired Manny. He had seen a hard worker and couldn’t have cared less about formal documentation. Frank always managed to hand Manny a paycheck at the end of the month and as long as Manny was getting paid, he had never really cared about how Frank did it. But now he cared.
“Manny, I’ve contacted Immigration Services,” Alyson said.
He stopped. His lungs stopped. His heart stopped. His brain stopped.
“I’m sorry. It’s Corporate policy.”
Manny’s brain resumed function. The image of some guy from Immigration knocking on his family’s apartment door took him away from the backroom of The Market. He was standing in the family room, watching his mother struggle to understand the white man’s English. Then she was crying as the official handed her the family’s deportation papers.
He could feel everyone’s stares as he walked to the front of the store. They knew. They all knew. Stuff like this traveled fast among the employees, especially among the Mexican ones who could communicate the latest gossip whenever they pleased because management couldn’t understand them.
Jorge signaled Manny over to his cash register aisle and turned off the Aisle #6 light.
“You know they’re gonna review us all now. You know that, right?”
Jorge meant to sound angry, but all Manny heard was fear.
Manny pushed past his cousin toward the front doors.
“You just couldn’t stick with your own, could you?” Jorge called after him.
Molly was waiting for Manny when he exited the store, sans badge, sans apron, sans uniform hat and polo shirt.
“Do you need a ride?” she offered.
“No.”
“Oh. So Jorge’s almost done then?” she assumed.
“Sure.”
Truthfully, Jorge wouldn’t be off for another three hours. But Alyson moved fast, so Manny knew he may not have to wait that long.
“So…”
She was trying. And he wanted to help her. But he couldn’t let himself.
“Manny…are you going to be okay?”
He looked around. If he started walking right then, he might have been able to hitch a ride half of the way home from a member of the rush hour crowd.
“Manny, I’m sorry,” she said.
He looked at her. He began to back away from the car.
“What’s wrong?”
For a second he feared she might get out of the car.
“Don’t,” he ordered.
She froze.
“Don’t move. Just leave.”
It killed him to talk to her like that. Confusion filled her face. But then something worse replaced the confusion. She looked hurt. The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt her.
“Manny, what’s going on?” She was begging him.
He just stared at her. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her to come with him. But he just turned around and walked away, leaving her alone in the parking lot.
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