One Sunday morning in May, my mother telephoned and asked me to attend Mass with her. I was busy packing my books and deciding which ones to leave for my nephew Sam and his sisters, and I had fourteen papers on Theme in The Great Gatsby to read and mark by the end of the day. I didn’t want to go to church. But the Mass was being said in memory of Papa Vincent, my grandfather, dead these twenty years, and members of his family would be expected to bear the gifts—the little carafes of water and wine and the loot from the collections—to the altar during the Offertory Procession. My father, the sweetest soul I knew, was feeling under the weather, and my brother, a believer, was out of town.…
...continue reading
A big man with a small head steps towards the kerb and puts his hand out. A universal hand gesture, or so you’d think.
However, the driver chooses to ignore him and drive on, his face a pinch of shock as we pass, mere metres apart. There’s no way he didn’t see him, the guy was practically wearing the shelter, and the bus isn’t even half full.
I glance out of the back window and see his portly frame slowly shrinking. He’s still looking our way, hands on hips and head cocked in disbelief as though already mentally compiling the complaint.
It happens again a few days later. Same route, same driver. An elderly woman is hurrying to the stop as fast as her frail legs can carry her.…
...continue reading
Last-minute shoppers were making frenzied purchases as the last rays of warmth died outside the mall. Seasonal malaise whistled in through cracks around the windows and doors and through the bullet holes from last summer’s drive-by shooting. Security had tightened, then, just like it tightened when that little boy went missing the summer before that and that makeup counter girl was strangled in the parking lot a year or two before that. Somehow, the mall only ever had its big problems when the weather was so hot the glass roof of the food court sweated. That’s why the security guard was playing on his phone when Santa Claus pulled an AR-15 out of his sack.
– AJ Miller…
...continue reading
Dunkin is out of vanilla syrup for your mid-afternoon latte. You get it anyway, but can’t bring yourself to drink it. A white Escalade behind you has cruise set to breakneck. Your eyelids droop. I should get over, you think. There’s nowhere to the right. Your eyes flick up and over, check the rear, check the driver’s side. The Escalade is still there. There’s a gap on the left. You start to jump lanes, dipping into a pothole that cradles your tire. Fleetingly, you dream the hollow is a large, black dog. You hit the brakes. The Escalade doesn’t.
– AJ Miller…
...continue reading
It was the kind of smell that could lift you off your feet. The aroma attracted half a dozen children with smiles as big as croissants. Sniffing like curious dogs, they looked at the counter and said nothing as they awaited their treats. My joy mirrored theirs as I presented the muffins.
Wow, they’re so warm! They said, and they’re so soft! How right they were. They get sweeter every day! Indeed they did. Once each child had taken one, more pastries still remained. Why did you bake thirteen? I told them I called it a baker’s dozen: two for each of them so they could share with a friend. The last one? That one was for me.
In time, they found their way back onto the cobblestones, laughing and singing, bellies full.…
...continue reading
When he first showed me the crescent-shaped rash on his chest, right over his heart, I glanced at it from across the kitchen. My husband was fresh from the mid-summer garden, dripping fresh salty sweat on the floor. I knew better than to come too close, and there was always something. The cactus splinters in his hands, the twig in his eye, his darkened rotting toe. “Feel it!” He didn’t sound too desperate, so I said, “I’m not a doctor.”
That afternoon, I scooped cookie dough. My husband walked in from the garage and pulled off his damp tank top. Even though I’m near-sighted I could see the eruption, now a quarter moon, which covered his chest and protruded at least an inch. I bent down to examine its details, touched it tentatively.…
...continue reading
after Remedios Varo’s “Astral Entity”
NOTES FOR THE BABYSITTER
- You can reach me at 555-GET-AWAY or call the Get a Break bar on Vacation Blvd. and have them page me. I hope you don’t do that though.
- She only answers to Astra, but if you have an emergency her name is Nora Boudeman and she’s six years old. She has no physical preexisting conditions.
- She will only eat sugar water and rocket pops and dandelion salad. The salad is in a Tupperware in the fridge. She’s in a phase.
- She has an “imaginary” friend. Just play along.
- Don’t be alarmed. She’s just fooling around.
- Humor her, no matter what, unless of course it’s dangerous. Then distract. I hope you know the fine art of distraction.
CHILD TO THE BABYSITTER
“Have you met my friend?…
...continue reading