*
The teacher loved seeing the family together, but she hated the way they all fired questions at the father without sensitivity of any kind.
One pushed through the crowd. “Are you really from Jupiter?” She shoved a microphone under his mouth. Miss Cheswick rolled her eyes.
Arik scratched his head. “No, I was born in Nebraska. I am fully human.”
Another held up a recording device from the back of the crowd. “Did you implant a tracking system in your son’s hand?” Miss Cheswick watched as Van looked intently at his father (as if he did not know the answer already).
“A tracking system? No.” Arik shot a disapproving look at Van.
A man in the front with a notepad and pen in hand asked, “Why doesn’t Ms. Bower recall her time with you?”
Arik looked at Ms. Bower and smiled. “We cared about each other, but our marriage was short. We went to the movies. We did, you know, normal things.”
As the crowd directed more mundane questions at Arik, Miss Cheswick realized all of Van’s questions—questions he had wondered his whole life—were being answered at this very moment. All of them except one, and it was that one that would never occur to a reporter.
Miss Cheswick yelled from the edge of the room, “Mr. Lojze, do you love your son?”
Arik reached over and hugged his son for the first time. “Of course, he’s my blood. How could I not love him?”
The cameras snapped wildly for a few minutes before Miss Cheswick made it through the swarm to the door and started motioning for the reporters to leave.
When the house was quiet again, she cooked dinner for the two Lojze’s and Ms. Bower. With some probing, she got Van to reveal that the ‘tracking device’ in his palm was a tiny metal shard that stuck in his hand while drilling in his uncle’s basement pole. Van’s dad let out a belly laugh.
Arik said he would keep in touch with Miss Cheswick and Van. He also promised to repay he for the trip, even though it would be paid in small increments. He said it was important to him because his time with his son was invaluable.Van never returned to the ‘Van table,’ and the kids seemed to quickly forgive his barrage of lies—seeing him more as a star, a fallen star, but a star nonetheless. Although there were plenty of seats at the ‘boy table’ for Van and the other thirteen boys, a new boy began sitting alone. His name was Brett, so Miss Cheswick called his table the ‘Brett table.’
The solitary boy made Miss Cheswick feel as though her actions were futile. It was as though there must always be at least one child sitting in isolation. She relinquished her desire to give every child a sense of belonging and, instead, put her faith in the idea that all ‘aliens’ claw their way out of obscurity when the stars align just so.
After more time passed, Miss Cheswick’s and Arik’s pen pal letters developed into love letters. When they could no longer stand to be apart, he applied for a credit card of his own and promptly purchased a diamond ring and a one-way ticket to Warrenton Heights. Miss Cheswick became Mrs. Lojze, and the married couple kept Van on weekends. When Ms. Bower left for Canada, she awarded the Lojze’s full custody of Van. Mrs. Lojze locked Mr. Lojze’s drill in the utility closet, just in case.
Pesky Specters
The aroma of gold lilies and lavender sprigs masked death’s scent. However, the obnoxious floral arrangements did little to distract Jacob from the corpse. He embraced his weeping wife as he stared over her shoulder at his father’s pale skin poking out of the casket. The crowd shuffled past them, murmuring about the unexpected loss as the funeral home employees twisted their faces to match the patrons’ somber expressions. Jacob neither wept nor twisted his face. He was a rock.
After politely declining Aunt Jessica’s invitation to a post-funeral gathering, Jacob and his wife got into their SUV. He put on his sunglasses and coasted down the cemetery’s narrow lane and onto the main road. His mind fixated on a work project until his thoughts were interrupted by something he saw through his car window. It was a homely woman positioning her trashcan on the curb. She looked at Jacob and grinned. It struck him odd that she smiled while performing such a menial task. The vehicle and sunglasses shielded him from the etiquette of returning a smile, but his wife Nancy grinned through her tears. Like a knight in armor, Jacob drove past the peasant to slay the dragons of the finance world.
Not tonight though. He quickly changed out of his black suit and into a burgundy robe. Nancy went right to bed, but Jacob sipped tea in between uncontrollable yawns and stared blankly at the fine art print framed on his wall. Edvard Munch’s The Scream was crooked. He wondered how and when it might have gotten jostled. Partly because he was too tired to straighten it, he reasoned the artist would have preferred it that way and dozed off.
Next thing he knew, the early morning sunshine flooded through the windows and awoke him. When he called his boss to apologize for his tardiness, his boss suggested he take a few days off to mourn his father’s death. Jacob assured him that it’d be best to move forward. He worked his usual cycle—spending days at his office under the hum of fluorescent lights and nights working at their small dining room table.
One Tuesday evening Nancy left for her Bible study, and Jacob stayed home to finish some extra work. The radio blared in the background. Suddenly he recognized an unforgettable song from his past. A feeling like a balloon rose in his chest. Jacob jumped up and changed the station to an upbeat hip-hop song that he didn’t recognize to avoid the emotional surge.
“How long will this go on?” a voice asked.
Jacob’s heart raced as he looked around the room. He quickly got on all fours, rolled into his bedroom, and hid behind his bed stand.
“Nice going, Ninja.” The voice chuckled. “I asked, ‘How long will this go on?’”
“Who are you? Where are you?” Jacob asked from his hiding place.
“I am up here. I will come down to you,” the voice said.
Jacob spotted the shadowy figure near the ceiling, and it descended down the wall. Jacob leaped from his hiding spot and swung at it. His hand went straight through the figure and into the drywall. The figure examined the hole in his side. He put his shadowy appendage through it. This instantly regenerated the shadow into its former state of wholeness.
“Not bad. I really didn’t think you could fight.” The figure moved to the right. “Now, you’ll have to fix the hole in the wall. May I come down now? We can speak amicably, can’t we?” With an eerie adeptness, the black figure glided down the wall head first. He dove into the floorboards, momentarily disappeared, then emerged upright. “I’ll start. I am your sorrow. You know, the sorrow that normally manifests in a heart when it encounters a loved one’s death.”
“I came to terms with death years ago. It was in high school actually. An angry student gunned down my best friend and eight other students while I hid under a desk praying for my life to be spared. I outlived them, but I’ll die someday. Mourning something as natural and common as death seems senseless,” Jacob explained bitterly.
The shadowy figure sobbed intensely for several minutes. At times, his whimpers and moans resembled a wounded animal. When the tears let up, he began, “My hosts always have some unnatural atrocity that steers them left where others go right. I am so sorry you experienced that. It’s just terrible!”
The shadow composed himself and continued, “Nevertheless, you didn’t allow sorrow to enroot in your heart. The energy created by sorrow does not evaporate. It must exist somewhere, even when it’s unwelcomed by its host. The energy of your sorrow manifested itself into what I am—a specter. Don’t worry; I’ll only be here until your heart opens to death’s unconditional terms of sorrow.”
Jacob replied, “We don’t have a guest bedroom. You’ll have to sleep on the couch, assuming you do sleep.” Jacob’s cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. “Excuse me.” Jacob longed to hear the voice of a client begging him to dig into
his work to avoid this emotional audit conducted by an entity that defied Jacob’s understanding of the world as he knew it.
Rather than a client, it was his wife’s voice. “Hello, Jacob. There’s something I have been meaning to tell you all week. I simply cannot get up the courage to tell you to your face.” There was a long pause. “I’m pregnant. There…I said it!”
Jacob could not say anything nor could he feel anything. The only thing he could think was how odd it was that he felt nothing when his wife told him they would be having a baby. He did not allow himself to feel happy or sad. He was not scared or proud. Just then, a white figure appeared next to Sorrow. Jacob asked the new specter, “Who are you?”
A hopeless sigh emitted through the earpiece. “I’m Nancy! Oh man, the shock is too much for you. This is even worse than I thought. We met three years ago. I am your wife. Now I will be the mother of your child!”
Jacob replied, “I know it’s you, Nancy. I’m sorry; someone is here—uh, the neighbor kid selling fundraiser stuff. I’ll call you later.” He shoved the cell phone in his pocket.
The white figure introduced himself in a cheery manner, “I’m Joy. It’s nice to meet you!” Turning to Sorrow, he continued, “It looks like we have a party of emotion avoidance. Shall we have roll call? Stress?”
Sorrow answered, “Stress has not manifested. Something tells me this guy has no problem experiencing stress. I’m Sorrow.”
Jacob groaned with frustration. “Gentlemen or whatever you are, you are infringing on my life. Please leave!”
Joy explained, “Jacob, we are a part of your life. Life is about experiencing joy and sorrow. When you avoid us, you avoid life altogether. If you want us to leave, I have a suggestion.”
Jacob replied, “Anything.”
“Write a letter to your unborn child,” Joy said.
In desperation, Jacob picked up a pen and scribbled on a legal pad:
Dear Son (or Daughter),
I haven’t met you and don’t really know what to say. I don’t know what you will be like, but I hope you like art. If you do, I promise to take you to the art museum like my dad took me.
I loved creating pasts and futures for the moment in time captured by the artists as my dad intently listened to my absurd stories. I also listened intently as he managed to invent captivating histories for the art that looked like boring paint splats to me. More captivating than his stories or the art was my dad’s happiness to be there with me. I want you to know that feeling.
Sincerely,
Your Dad
Jacob paused and allowed himself to cry.
The white specter’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “Why aren’t you happy, Jacob? Having a baby is a wonderful thing! What did he do wrong. Sorrow? Sorrow?”
It was quiet.
Joy glided back and forth in a pacing-like fashion. “I suppose I’m stuck for a little while longer.”
Jacob dialed Nancy’s cell phone number. “Nancy? I’m sorry about what happened earlier. I am happy we are having a baby. Ecstatic! Hey, I have an idea. Let’s decorate the nursery in da Vinci! Where are you? Stay there; I’m gonna meet you.”
Jacob grabbed his keys, crossed the threshold, and slammed the door behind him. The white specter attempted to follow his host through the closed door but never manifested on the other side.
Jacob, preoccupied with a newfound excitement, didn’t even notice Joy’s disappearance. “No da Vinci? Okay. Dali?”
What I Saw
I am a plain man. I do not believe folks can read the future or your palm or your mind. Things too wonderful for me to understand, I don’t even ponder. Who can claim to know what happens when we die? Whether we go to heaven or sleep until Jesus returns or something else? For Edna, I suppose it was something else altogether.
Since my wife passed, me and the girls only go to church once a week. Edna insisted on some church activity six or seven times a week. She was a noble woman, a woman of hard-earned character. When the townspeople called her a good woman, she did not accept the compliment. A humble ol’ girl, she was. I don’t know how in heavens the girls turned out the way they did.
When the girls were first born, Edna was delighted to have twins. Her face shined like she just won first prize in the pie contest. She even said how wonderful it would be for the girls to have each other as companions for all their lives. They weren’t companions though, not even close.
From the time they were toddlers, they clawed and scratched at each other, fighting over toys and clothes and whatever else. Bonnie was the biter. They aren’t the kinda twins that look alike, mind you. Bonnie has wild and wiry blond hair; Serena has ivory skin and jet black hair just like a china doll. Edna and I called her Doll, but Bonnie just called her Serena.
Doll and Bonnie kept on at that quarrelling even when Edna was lying on her deathbed. She lay under the covers with her eyes closed in our bedroom. The girls stood on either side of her.
Doll grabbed her hand and said with more sadness than an eleven-year-old girl should ever know, “Mama, remember Elisha and Elijah from the Bible? Elisha asked for a double portion of Elijah’s spirit right before Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind. I will be Elisha; you can be Elijah. Give me a double portion of your spirit when you go.”
Tears, the kind that fall when your heart has just been squeezed like a piece of fruit, fell from Bonnie’s eyes. “No, Mama. Don’t give it to Serena. Give me your spirit.” She laid her head on Edna’s lap. That’s when Edna died.
The men came to get Edna’s body from our home shortly after that. Some ladies from town brought us dinner that night. I told the girls an early night would do us all good and tucked them in their beds.
I could not bring myself to sleep in the bedroom. Just hours earlier, Edna was so there. And then all of a sudden, she was so not there. Like a black hole in our bed had swallowed the sun. And if I laid down where the black hole was, it might suck the moon up too.
So I tossed and turned on the couch. I thought about things the way Edna would want them. At the funeral, I mean. Since I couldn’t sleep, I decided to check on the girls.
As I quietly opened the door, I saw both Doll and Bonnie sleeping sound in their beds. But when I closed the door, something gold flashed like lightning. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye, so I opened the door again.
Standing at the foot of Bonnie’s bed was someone like an Amazon woman dressed like a dancer on stage in Las Vegas. Auburn ringlets covered her head, but it looked as if a great light was shining on some parts of her hair and, in those places, it shone gold. She wore a leather and metal bodice with a frilly skirt. She held a bow with an arrow pointed at Doll. It was transparent in appearance and vaguely resembled Bonnie in some ways. I figured it was Bonnie’s spirit.
Just then, a ghostly figure rose right up out of Doll’s body—her spirit. Also exceptionally tall, this woman wore a long sapphire gown. She drew a sword and blocked the arrow shot at Doll’s sleeping body. I was frozen in fear and could not believe my own eyes as the two battled in the girls’ bedroom. The spirits paid no attention to me and just kept on battling until the woman in the blue dress stepped close enough to the Amazon woman to catch her bow with the tip of the sword’s blade. She flung it across the room.
Then the Amazon woman—er, Bonnie’s spirit—ran right through me into my bedroom. I spun around and pursued her. As I stood in the doorway, she snatched something from the bed like a folded robe. When the robe had unfurled, wafts of Edna’s rosewater perfume filled the air. Not only that, but the robe emitted Edna’s very presence. Doll’s spirit leapt right through me and took hold of the robe. They yanked and pulled. It was a regular tug of war over Edna’s spirit.
Finally Bonnie’s inner apparition leaned forward and bit Doll’s spiritual arm. The lady in blue suddenly let go. Bonnie’s spirit quickly slipped the robe over her Amazon attire. I ste
pped aside (so as to avoid her walking through me again).
I followed her back to the girls’ bedroom. The Amazon woman lay atop Bonnie and sunk into her body. Doll’s body sucked the woman in the sapphire dress right through the hallway and back into her body like a high quality vacuum sucks up a peanut.
The next morning, I thought it all was a dream. But when the two girls awoke, things were unusually peaceful. I thought it was the despair of their mother passing. However, Bonnie offered to make breakfast and when she whipped my eggs, she hummed a joyful song.
Then she called out, “Doll, how do you want your eggs?”
At that moment, I knew it could not have been a dream. Bonnie never called her Doll. She had most certainly inherited Edna’s spirit. From that time on, Doll and Bonnie became the companions Edna had hoped they would be.
As for me, I told you I am a plain man. Things too wonderful for me, I don’t even ponder. I just know what I saw.
The Other Me
I drove down the highway listening to talk radio when I glanced in the rear view mirror. That was when I saw me in the car behind me. It was a younger me. The me before the kids were born. The me before I needed a chiropractor.
That me was speeding. It reminded me how reckless I had been during those years. I hated that me. That me drove without headlights in the dark of night just for the challenge and stole from unlocked cars. I performed stupid stunts without regard for anyone else. That me could not fathom how challenging life would become without resorting to careless risks. As I cursed me, that me passed on the left and got in front of me.
I reminisced about the car the younger me drove. It was a gray Honda Civic. Boring-looking old thing, but I had some good times in that car. My college buddies and I penciled our autographs on the dashboard. We ate sunflower seeds and spit them right on the floor mats. I cannot recall changing the oil in the car—ever. Yet, the engine cranked up without complaint day after day.
As the younger me zoomed into the distance, I could only make out the bumper sticker’s white outline. I remembered the sticker said something funny and sped up to read it. Something about a chicken. Just then, traffic suddenly stopped.
The other me slammed on the brakes and skidded a few feet before coming to a perfect stop. A little less alert and agile, I also slammed on the brakes. My tires squealed right before my Buick crunched into the Honda’s rear end. It was only a mild collision and the other me was alright, so I mostly felt dread. How would I ever deal with me after an accident? I had no intention of apologizing to that young pleasure-monger. Still, I looked at the deadlocked traffic and got out of my car to hand over my insurance.
I could feel the other me try to make eye contact, but I averted my eyes. As I avoided eye contact with myself, I noticed all the other drivers gawking unsympathetically at my plight. Some talked on their cell phones—probably reporting the accident to local radio stations. Without a word, the other me walked to the bumper to inspect the damage.
Young me said, “Meh, it’s nothing. Forget about it.” With that, the other me let me go scot free.
As I returned to the driver’s seat, I reflected on how bitter I had become after life had dealt its remaining cards. After my salaried position became a part-time job. After the bank foreclosed on the home where we raised our children. After my wife had a stroke.
The younger me was the me she married. That me knew how to relax and have a good time. I was not reclusive then. I was much cooler when I was young. Stupid and selfish, but cool.
When traffic resumed a normal pace, I lost sight of the old me and exited the highway. I pulled into a gas station and purchased sunflower seeds for the first time in ten years. I could not bring myself to spit them on the floor mat.
Food-o-phobia
Diane was not anorexic. She contracted food-o-phobia. Psychologists probably named it something technical and derived from Latin, but that is how I referred to my sister’s infirmity. The condition caused her to grow very thin and frail, which fostered the rumor she was anorexic. But she wasn’t. She merely found some fault with every food type.
Pesticides tainted all produce. Either that or it was a food hybrid. You know, a watermelon-orange or something. Come to think of it, she frequently used the hybrid excuse when rejecting meat too. Diane said hot dog manufacturers used goat-pigs. What is a goat-pig? I do not know. I doubt it exists, but in my sister’s mind it did. All chickens have been injected with antibiotics by the way. That is what she said.
What if they were? You would think she never tasted tarragon chicken sprinkled with feta and smothered in sautéed mushrooms. Incidentally, she had eaten tarragon chicken. She consumed all kinds of food at one time.
The food-o-phobia onset was gradual. It started about two years after she met her fiancé Ethan. He served in the Air Force and engaged in dangerous activities—like skydiving and eating normal food normally. He was not the one who convinced her of food’s harmful intent.
My theory focuses on three suspects: online newspapers, 24-hour news stations, or her chiropractor’s newsletters. They probably fed her this information. I cannot say why she happened to be more vulnerable to info-excess than restaurant commercials.
Advertisers have no trouble enticing me with a double cheeseburger. She would not eat a restaurant cheeseburger though. Oh, how she detested the restaurants! She rattled on and on about the germs, both accidental and deliberate, in all restaurant food.
“Ranty rant. Rage. Roar,” she would say. That is how I heard it anyway.
“So?” I would respond. Then, she would roll her eyes and steer conversation to unrelated events.
That is, until one day, her fiancé died suddenly. Ironically, he choked on a turkey sausage. Grief seized her, and melancholy pierced her perspective. Nothing seemed significant enough to trouble her anymore—not even food.
It kinda makes me wonder what worries would suddenly erode if tragedy struck me. Maybe I would not write checks at the dinner table or something. Maybe they would be late, and I would stay calm. It must be liberating to have something tragic happen.
Nobody whispers about Diane’s “anorexia” anymore. She does not diet, and she is not fat. She’s just free. I still feel sad for her fiancé though. By all rights, he should have been killed by a faulty parachute in a heroic display rather than having been thrust into the throes of death by turkey sausage.
The Collector
George blamed his early balding on never having married or even fallen in love. Living alone wasn’t as bad since he found Midas. The oversized white cat gave him someone to talk to when he felt lonesome. If he grew bored talking to Midas, he dusted and reorganized his vast collections. The apartment’s lack of space did not deter him from shopping for additional items every Saturday afternoon.
George browsed the outdoor flea market aisles one Saturday when he felt a pinch on his back. He swung around to see an odd looking man dressed in a coffee-colored fedora and tattered khakis.
The little man analyzed a piece of white fuzz that he clutched between his wrinkled fingers. He looked up and asked, “Do you have pets?”
“Just one cat. Midas is his name.” George brushed off his faded black T-shirt.
“I’m Earnest. Nice to meet ya.” The little man extended his hand.
“George,” he said as he shook it.
Earnest lifted his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “George, I don’t suppose I could interest you in some Egyptian figurines. I need to sell a few and get out of this heat. It could kill a man my age, ya know?”
Partly out of sympathy, George agreed to follow the vendor to his table. He was impressed with the figurines’ detail and thought the vibrant colors would give his studio apartment an exotic flair, a real sense of soul.
“How much?” George asked the little man, who was quick to sit in a folding chair behind the table.
“
Ten dollars. Forty for all five of ‘em.” Earnest reached in a bag to reveal a stack of registration cards. “The purchase includes a full lifetime warranty as long as you fill this card out.”
He took the forty dollars extended to him and handed George a pen. He grinned as his customer scribbled his name, address, and telephone number on the card.
George handed it to him. “My clumsy cat may force me to redeem this warranty.”
Earnest’s toothless grin grew wider. He said, “Visit my table next week. I may jus’ be gettin’ a new shipment in. You’ll be here, right?”
George replied, “There’s more? I’ll be here. See you Saturday morning!” He grabbed his new treasures and eagerly returned to his studio apartment.
Bookcases stuffed with alphabetized book, CD, and DVD collections lined the walls. George surveyed the apartment for the ideal spot to display his five statues and settled on a console table. He carefully arranged them in a semicircle and glanced suspiciously at his cat. “Midas, you stay off this table. You hear me?”
The shorthaired cat did not even open one eye in response. He remained curled in his basket soaking up the warm sun. George sighed as he walked to the kitchen, where he filled a pot of water for the stove. When he turned around, he noticed the figurines formed a straight line. They angled toward the window.
George shook his head in bewilderment and rearranged the five wooden statues back into a semi-circle. He stared at the figurines until he heard the sizzle of his overflowing pot. He was present-minded enough to adjust the heat, but distracted by the puzzling situation, added handful after handful of spaghetti.
The racket in the kitchen stirred Midas, and he jumped on the counter. “Bad Midas, get down!”
Midas eventually leapt from the counter when he was satisfied there were no open tuna cans. He kneaded the seat of a worn chair, circled his tail twice, and curled up for another nap. When George entered the living room, he again noticed the figurines changed position. They formed a straight line and angled, this time, toward the couch.
He decided to ignore the wooden statue and pushed Midas off his favorite chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he witnessed the Egyptian figurines swivel toward the cat as he moved back to his basket. As illogical as it seemed, George accepted these figurines moved of their own accord. He noticed Midas’s placement in the room affected their angle.
George jumped to his feet and grabbed the “E” book from his encyclopedia set. The four-page Egypt entry briefly mentioned a cat god known as Bast. “They’re worshipping him,” George mumbled to himself as he closed the book.
George knelt on the floor and peered at the figurines for several minutes, trying not to blink. The five statues stood motionless. George’s legs grew stiff, so he sat on the floor with his legs straight out to ease the discomfort.
The stiffness spread to the rest of his body. Careful not to remove his gaze from the statues, he laid flat on the floor. The mild discomfort grew to severe pain, enough to warrant a moment’s glance at his hand. Then he noticed his new tawny complexion. He closed his eyes in disbelief. He had become a figurine!
The pain abruptly stopped. George opened his eyes to see
Midas sniffing his face. The cat appeared enormous! He batted at George’s head with a paw. As the figurine spun, the room seemed to whirl around George as if he had a high fever. He wanted to scream for help, but he was paralyzed.