“Mama, did you know that when a mother goose sees a fox, she pretends to have a broken wing? She flaps and splashes away into deep water, so the fox follows her and drowns while her chicks hide all safe. Isn’t that brave?”
“I did not know that,” Pari said. She beamed as Alemi ran ahead of her in the wooded park that flanked the suburb’s sole shopping mall.
“I saw it on the nature channel; it’s my favourite.” Alemi slowed down and caught his mother’s hand. “But why do the foxes follow the goose with the broken wing every time? They must be stupid!”
“They must be — everyone knows that you shouldn’t mess with mama geese; we’re the cleverest creatures on the planet.”
“You’re not a goose!…
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Annabelle Lee had a room of her own, wallpaper from the movies, and an iPhone. She had a closet full of clothes, many with price stickers still on them; she had one favorite sweatshirt, hidden in the corner so that Mariana, the cleaning lady, would not put it in the wash. Annabelle Lee swore that the sweatshirt would never be washed because she wore it the day the seventh-grade boy with the thick silver chain asked her for a cigarette by the fountain; she did not have one, but the moment lasted anyway. On top of it all, Annabelle Lee had a porcelain doll; she had other dolls, too, but the porcelain doll was her favorite, though she never gave it a name, but just called it “my doll.”…
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The ring, held between white satin lips in the black velvet box, was shoved deep into the left-side of his hiking pants pocket. He repeatedly reached inside to touch it, making sure it was still there, even when on level ground where it was unlikely to fall out. Mal did not have much feeling in his left hand because burns had eradicated his finger tips. People still stared at his leathery facial scars, now twelve years old, but they no longer stopped while staring.
Still, it was a wonder to him that a woman as attractive as Becca would date him. They had been exclusive for several months, from the time they met at the university in Indiana, where Mal had enrolled as an MFA student in Poetry and Becca worked as the English Department administrative assistant.…
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Sometimes I think that there’s a secret order to which certain baristas belong – only the painfully hip ones, mind you – which gives them insider tips on foam steaming, coaching on the right attitude to pouring, and special workshops on moustache trimming. I like to imagine that they meet in an underground bunker somewhere, or perhaps a church basement. Membership is, of course, rarefied. Admission is by invitation only, and brothers-and-sisters-in-coffee are sworn to secrecy for life.
What do they discuss in their masonic jar meetings? The first order of business must surely be hair. Everyone is aware of that certain cadre of baristas who always don immaculately coiffed hair. I think of them as the deliberately-messy hair brigade. What was it they used to say in West Village and Lincoln Park coffee shops? …
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Phoebe crept down the path toward the big house. The dirt road parted the grassy field. The white wood of the house was darkened by the night. The windows showed no signs of illumination. A set of columns stood proudly on both sides of the staircase. A sturdy balcony watched over the land.
Homer was hunched on a knee about twenty feet from the stairs. He rubbed his hands across a mound of dirt.
“Homer? What are you doing out so late?” asked Phoebe in a hushed voice.
Homer quickly stood up and brushed the dirt off his hands. “Huh?”
Phoebe glanced at the patch of dirt.
“What are you doing out your quarters?” asked Homer. “Massa could wake up at any moment. He already gave you fair warning last week.”…
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It was that – ‘the value of the painting’, as if it needed repeating – that was most overbearingly pressed upon her. It was an artwork like no other, the collector explained, as he laboriously, reluctantly, and over the course of several hours, handed the oil painting to the conservationist. She nodded politely every few minutes. He seemed nervous to part with the thing.
It wasn’t much to look at, as the collector deprecatingly – perhaps a touch defensively – conceded. A fairly plain, oil-on-canvas representation of a nice day. Cheap oil on cheap canvas, at that. A bright sun, some slapdash trees and their misaligned shadows, people standing gaily at the edge of a lake. Nothing reflected in the water, undisturbed by ripples, ducks, or debris.…
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“You need to come home. Now.”
“I hear you,” I reply, holding the phone at a distance. Maya’s voice comes across the line at a higher decibel level than usual. “Are you sure you’re feeling contractions?”
“Daniel!” It is nearly a shout. “I know what this is and I know that you have to be on the next flight.”
“Alright,” I say, wondering if this isn’t another case of false labor, like the symptoms that sent us to the hospital prematurely just two weeks ago. “I will order my ticket for tonight.”
“I don’t know if I can last that long!”
It is early afternoon so there’s plenty of time to make a reservation. There is no doubt in my mind that there will be an empty seat on the plane.…
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