Val Bonney

Response

Bellefontaine Soup

Maggie Caldwell

Inspiration Piece

Sunday Supper

The first time I ever ate raccoon

was at Bellefontaine Cemetery

over on the north side of town.

(You know,

that’s where your grandparents are both buried)

I was dating Norma Lynne Hoffman that summer –

her parents were caretakers

over on the Protestant

side.

That day I went to work at dawn with Pop,

steaming

and shaping

black wool

bowlers

and grey felt

fedoras

for the men to pick up before the weekend.

(You know,

that’s one of those old hat blocks

your mother used to frame

your baby shoes in the upstairs hall)

We went extra early that day because Pop

said he couldn’t remember

a summer so hot even the mosquitoes

were scared

away, and even with the big fans

spinning

out from on the wall

and down from the ceiling

and up from the floor

it was warm enough back there to heat up our whole school in January.

My mother brought us lemonade

and cold fried chicken

and when we finished up, I hopped into my red ’52 Sunliner

and went straight to band practice.

(You know,

I had that car for five years

until I wrecked it on my first date

with your mother)

I met up with Norma Lynne – we had a date

afterwards but we skipped band

and instead

rolled

down the ragtop,

cruised

to the river,

parked

on the levee above those smooth

cool

cobblestones,

and spent the afternoon on the carousel

riding painted horses

up and down

around and around

making a breeze –

cooling

down

best we could.

So then we walked out over Chain of Rocks Bridge

with a pocketful

of pebbles

and tossed them one by one into the swirling

muddy

river

trying to hit the wide barge

passing

slowly under us,

loaded down with fat

trunks of maple and oak.

(You didn’t know my cousin

Ralph Potter – he worked upriver

at that logging operation for a while)

When I took Norma Lynne back home

down the winding drive

past neat rows

of white marble

old Mr. Hoffman was standing

on their wide front porch swinging

the biggest raccoon

I ever saw by its tail.

(No, it wasn’t road kill,

it was caught in a fair and square sort of way)

He had a satisfied

smile

that reached all the way to Illinois.

He asked me if I’d care to stay

for supper.

Norma Lynne and I watched while Mr. Hoffman took out a bowie

knife he said belonged to his pop,

and cut off that raccoon’s tail,

but then Norma Lynne squealed

and covered her eyes

and said she couldn’t watch

so I chased after her red curls

all the way to the Catholic

side of the cemetery,

where we snuck

cigarettes

and kisses

in the soft grass

behind the twelve foot marble crucifix

where Monsignor Ferretti was laid to rest in 1936.

(You know,

there were still fresh roses at his grave almost twenty years later)

Finally the smell of spit roasted raccoon

called us back to dinner. Mrs. Hoffman had set a nice table

with buttery ears

of sweet yellow corn

and a mound of thick grits

with raccoon gravy

and a big plate of fresh dandelion

greens Norma Lynne said she just picked that morning from over in the field.

(You know,

that’s where the new Bellefontaine Hospital

was built a few years later,

where you were born)

So then Mr. Hoffman set a big platter of roasted raccoon

in the middle of the table,

cut off a thick slab of meat with that old bowie knife,

and, still grinning ear to ear, said

well, this here’s one varmit won’t be messin up my compost heap again.

Well, we ate and we ate – that was a delicious meal – then Norma Lynne

took out her accordion

and played Auld Lang Syne

as the sun set

and I made a couple of oompahs

on my tuba

with her for good measure.

I heard that Norma Lynne was married and had a couple of kids by the time

we buried Pop there, about five years later.

Old Mr. Hoffman didn’t seem to remember me that day.

And he had passed on himself by the time we buried

my mother

right next to Pop

the next fall.

(But you know,

I thought of Mr. Hoffman and that raccoon

every single time I picked up some garbage

one of you kids knocked over and never cleaned up)

Hmmm? Oh, it tasted like chicken.

——————————————————

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January 2010  Jekyll Island

Alisa Bliss

Inspiration Piece

Shallow Roots

Val Bonney

Response

She had always come to this tree as a little girl.  Lonely on the island, having neither sibling nor friend for company, Nina had found comfort in its twisted boughs; though abrasively rough they had seemed like ancient arms, enfolding and protecting.  It was to this tree that the small, wispy child confided her sorrows and joys, such as they were; in this tree her tremulous voice dared to utter audacious hopes and dreams for the future, letting the salty breezes carry them Northwards to the gods of fortune.  Sitting in this tree, Nina had planned how to get away from the island forever.

At seventeen she had applied without her parent’s knowledge for a university place on the mainland, putting as much distance between her and them as possible.  Although not overtly cruel – Nina had never been beaten, abused or starved – the Corstons were incapable of parental loving kindness.  To them, Nina was a late and unwelcome surprise; an inconvenience that necessitated getting in extra staff so that their social standing would not be affected.  Her mother was icily distant, rarely deigning to acknowledge the child’s existence; her father obsessively wrapped up in his business, having time for nothing but the pursuit and enjoyment of ever-greater wealth.

Studying Psychology and Fine Art had been partly a kick in their teeth, Nina acknowledged, leading her inexorably away from any commercial opportunities that might finally have won her their approval.  But she was also following her heart, forging the life she had promised herself for so long, honouring the values she had acquired through observation and experience, rather than education.

“Penny for them?” Joe said, giving her a quizzical look that combined both smile and frown.  Lost in her memories she had almost forgotten why they had come to the island today.

“Improve your offer,” she retorted, raising both chin and eyebrows expectantly.

“A pound?”  He held up the wallet out of which he had just paid the taxi that had brought them from the ferry landing.  “Tenner?”

“Not even close.”

“A hundred?”

“Getting warmer.”

“How about a thousand pounds, my undying love and lifelong servitude?”

“Deal,” she nodded, smiling and kissing him warmly.  Their love was a fire that engulfed them both, eradicating any lingering chill from their respective backgrounds: Nina’s childhood and Joe’s brief marriage.

“This old tree stump,” she explained, her smile fading as Joe lifted her petite form onto its blackened limbs, “was my first true friend.  He was the ear that listened without judgement or interpretation, the arms that held without agenda, the one that always stood by me unconditionally.”  With his usual sensitivity, Joe remained silent as Nina unfolded her stinging history for him like nettle origami.

She ran her hand over the dry, ribbed bark with nostalgic tenderness.  “When my mother told the staff to make sure I was off the premises before prestigious guests arrived, I’d come here and tell Old Oaky that some day I’d show people how children should be loved and valued, given a sense of self-worth.”

“And you do, Nina.”  Joe responded partly as Nina’s fiancé and partly as the respected child psychologist who had championed the sponsorship of her Masters dissertation in the subject.  His belief in her had been rewarded when the text book she had later written while working towards her Doctorate had become required reading for several university courses.

“When my father laughed at my teenage paintings and ridiculed the modern art I loved, I came here and vowed to Old Oaky that one day I’d show people how self-expression can get you through difficult times.”

“Again, you kept your promise.”  Joe’s reference to Nina’s creative workshops in some of their city’s bleakest communities brought back the hint of smile.  Her work never seemed more vital than when she was watching an unloved youth, hard behind his armour of tattoos and piercings, find peace and pride in tracing delicate tendrils of watercolour leaves across a muted landscape; or a middle-aged woman, bruised and gap-toothed from years of domestic abuse, tentatively finding her own voice through poetry.

In a single move, perfected many years before, she jumped down and landed like a cat.  “Come on,” she said, with one last look at the old tree silhouetted against the evening sky.  “Let’s get this over with.  The past is gone and nothing can be done about it now.”

Joe measured his pace, allowing Nina to stroll comfortably next to his long stride as they veered away from the shoreline.  Long plumes of pinkish cumulus clouds drifted over a calm sea; tomorrow would be a good day.

They walked in near silence, commenting only on the earliness of hedgerow flowers compared to the mainland.  Even with Joe holding her hand Nina felt some tightening in her jaw; she knew the next hour might challenge her hard-won mental and emotional happiness.

At the boundary of the 1920s villa, Nina’s childhood home, they looked across the straggly lawn to the peach-coloured façade, peeling now and mottled with liver spots like an aging gentlewoman.  Dusty windows stared, uncaring, upon weedy flower beds and a dried up fountain still full of last autumn’s detritus.  The level of decay was a shock to Nina and her gasp was clearly audible.

“When were you last here?” Joe asked.

“August 1998.”

“No, not when you left home,” he said gently.  “I meant, when did you last visit?”

“I didn’t.”  She let out a small, humourless laugh.  “They never asked me to and I never offered.”

“But you kept in touch?”

“Barely.  They sent one of their standard printed Christmas cards each year and let me know when my grandfather died.”  Nina clicked open the gate and they walked up the uneven brick path.  “I’m fine,” she said, sensing him looking down at her with concern.

The door was the same ugly, sludge-green one she remembered, complete with the circular stained glass window she had always detested.  She rang the bell and took a deep breath as they waited for it to be answered.  This could be uncomfortable for everyone, but she would keep her composure.

“Nina.”  Neither the cold blue eyes nor the clipped voice held any trace of emotion.  “You’re here, then.”

“Hello, mother.”  She was sorry at how little she felt, coming face-to-face again after all these years, but not really surprised.  Her mother looked exactly the same as the day Nina had left, just more wrinkled and less shiny, making it easy to remember how detached she had felt when saying goodbye thirteen years ago.

“This is Joe Melton,” she said, and Joe held out his hand.  “My fiancé.”  Mrs Corston gave him the two-second up-and-down appraisal Nina had witnessed countless times, before shaking the proffered hand perfunctorily.

“Come in,” she said, and turned to lead the way.  The fading grandeur of the villa’s exterior was echoed within.  Gloom permeated every corner; wood, glass and metal objects, once highly polished and reflecting light in myriad colours, were dulled by a layer of dust to a uniform matt monochrome.  The faintest suggestion of reheated vegetables tainted the air, just beyond the nostrils’ reach, like a disturbing dream that your waking mind can’t quite recapture.

Nina’s father occupied the chair that had always been his, even when he wasn’t in it, next to the fire and squarely facing the TV.  The set was switched off but still he stared at it, not even turning when his wife snapped, “She’s here.”

There was loathing and derision in the look Nina’s mother gave her husband before heading off to the kitchen, announcing that she would make a pot of tea even though they didn’t normally have one at this time of day.  Nina looked again at her father, now pushing seventy, and saw nothing of the brash and bumptious businessman he once was.  Greying hair was greasy and uncombed, flabbiness rounded out the once sharp features and the burden of terminal illness clouded his dark eyes.

“Dad?”  Her voice quavered a little with an unexpected pity.  “You wanted to see me?”

“They’re all going,” he said without looking up.  “The old trees down near the beach.  Being cleared for development.  Shallow roots, see.  I thought you’d want to know.”

These five sentences, the sum total of her father’s communication, were replayed in Nina’s head as she leaned on Joe’s shoulder on the ferry ride home.  “He knew,” she murmured.  “About Old Oaky.  He always knew.”

“And he wanted to let you know …”

“Before he dies, yes,” she nodded.  “Whether for me or for his own peace of mind, I don’t know.  But I’m glad he did.”

“Will you come again, then?”

“No,” she replied calmly.  “That was Dad’s farewell speech.  There’s nothing left for me here.”

She snuggled into Joe contentedly.  In one sense nothing at all had changed; but, if she chose to, Nina could now rebuild her memories around a sad, misguided fool, rather than an old tree stump.

Butterfly Dreams

Val Bonney

Response

Snatching Butterflies

Maureen O’Donnell

Inspiration Piece

On the corner of Seventh and Baker Streets, a telephone jangled and jingled. This was not an unusual thing, because, while payphones are meant for outgoing calls, this particular phone had rung every morning for the last week. Seven oh seven, on the dot.

That Wednesday morning, however, someone picked it up.

“Hello?” she said into the phone, and then coughed as a mistimed breath mixed just the wrong amount of cigarette smoke and frigid air in the back of her throat. “Sorry, what? Hello?”

She listened.

“Jess,” she said.

“Me.”

And, ”I don’t know.”  And then, “Why? I don’t–” She stared at the phone, and then she hung up.

#

Most children, at some point, choose their profession with little regard for what the future might hold: pilot, astronaut, teacher, mutated ninja turtle. All seem like reasonable options regardless of job demand or matching 401K plans.

Jess did not.

Nor did she have a clearer idea when she entered her teens, her twenties, chugged up hill into her thirties. Neither stupid, nor lazy, she simply did not know. She had the sense of who she was.

Clues flickered through her mind from time to time, but none ever settled long enough for her to catch hold of it. They danced like butterflies, out of reach. When an ambition did come within range, it seemed so fragile she feared it would be crushed; rather than grasp, she opened her hands and set it free.

#

She did not go to work. For the first time in twelve years, she missed a day and she did not call to tell them why.

Messages piled up on her machine until they threatened to slide off.

“Jess, are you coming in today?”
“Just calling to check up on you kid.”
“We’re docking you a personal day, Jess. Please call Reg in HR when you’re able, just so we’re on the same page.”
And the last one, a man’s voice. “Jessie, I’m worried about you. Call me.”

When she heard that one, she pressed a button and, with a beep, annihilated all record of concern.

#

Jess took the first job on offer after school. For forty-five months she handled money through a small window. She got a different set of keys and fielded calls, then made schedules. She transferred half way across the country and met a man.

They had a quick friendship, the kind that evolves over yogurt cartons and loneliness. Tension grew between them, subtle until it was too large to ignore, until it snapped. He separated from his wife.

Within six months, they reconciled, and Jess’s turn came to separate from him. She ate her yogurt alone. When they spoke, she employed single syllables and the smoke-screen-escape of paperwork.

They didn’t often speak.

#

The telephone rang, harsh. She could almost taste the metallic jangle in the back of her mouth, felt butterflies jig in her stomach. She nearly choked on one when he answered, “ciao.”

“Hello, this is Jess.” No response. “I left you a message yesterday.”
“I didn’t call you back.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said.
“I don’t take students. I don’t have time.”
“Of course. I’m a quick learner.”

Click. She called back the next day, and the next, skipped Sunday out of respect for family. She called on Monday. She called for three weeks.

“This is Jess—“
“Come in three weeks.”

#

Jess boarded the plane with what remained of her savings and a suitcase she borrowed from her sister. She crowded the armrest and stared out over fluffy clouds, so thick and soft that staring at them made her eyelids leaden with sleep. The sky above the clouds was clear, a cold blue, what she thought the ocean must be. But when she saw the water, the variations of azure, navy, cold metal and brown surprised her.

The plane touched down.

A young couple took over the lease on her small apartment. They put her termination notice aside in a growing pile of mail, along with the Hallmark envelopes and the letter that explained a pending divorce.

They kept the cards and letter until Jess called at Christmas time and asked if they’d received the Barolo.

They threw much of the mail away after that.

#

She closed her eyes and listened. Knuckles to crust of an artisan loaf, the work of her two hands. The hollow thump that warmed something inside her. Loaves scattered tables, cooling racks, the fire-warmed stones along the hearth. Complicated knots, rustic slashes, waypoints along a long, hard road.

When Jess opened her eyes, she barely caught her mentor’s smile.

“Così e così” was all he said, and left the room.

That day, she cleaned up and rode her bicycle into town. She unfolded a piece of paper, punched in the long sequence of numbers needed to call state side, and waited.

She waited the next night. And the next. Each afternoon, by 1:07pm, she called.

Until finally someone picked up.  A man.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“No, who are you?”

And, “What are you doing?” And then, “Why?” She hung up the phone.

Jess mounted her bike and started the long climb back to the bakery. The butterflies were stronger than they looked.