Gina Katz
Inspiration piece

Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid
By Christina Brockett
Response

The jazz background music floated through the large ballroom. The scent of old money and power permeated the air.

Time to put the next piece in place.

Dominque stood in the shadows. Her chestnut hair cascaded in waves down to the small of her bare back, framed by the outlines of her gown. The dress she wore was of an unknown designer but was spectacular all the same. The black lace gown hugged her slim frame and flared out like a flamenco dancer’s dress the closer it got to the floor. The designer called it a mermaid dress, but Dominique didn’t care. All she cared about was that it suited her purpose. There couldn’t be any mistakes tonight.

Obscured by a large potted plant, she watched him work the room with his wife; the pattern was the same each time.  They would approach a group of people her arm through his. Then, just before they reached the group, Mrs. Williams would pull her right arm out of his left and take a step back. This freed the Governor’s arm up for the inevitable slap on the back, the accompanying handshake and the fake smile revealing bleached teeth.

Governor Williams was a good southern boy educated at the Citadel. He later went on to make his family proud by going to Harvard Law School. The Governor came from a long line of politicians well versed in working the system, but one who had also become complacent.  His complacency was one of his weaknesses; bourbon and beautiful women his other two.

As he worked his way around the room, Dominique watched his carefully choreographed dance. A dance so predictable, it was almost humorous.  Except it wasn’t. Every time his bloated body moved to the next person she wanted to vomit.

What the room of onlookers didn’t know was that the esteemed Governor Williams was also a rapist.  A man, who with bourbon running through his veins, had raped a young woman just as he was beginning to get into politics.  Recently married at the time, with a pregnant wife at home, he stumbled into the rundown bar in a town so small it wasn’t even a target for his campaign.

The night was long forgotten, or so Governor Buck Williams thought.

Dominique represented a large Asian company who intended to acquire land in the good state of South Carolina. Unfortunately, Governor Williams was not making it easy for them, in part because he wanted to hand the land to BMW, who already had invested heavily in the state. Even the state vehicles were BMWs.

Things were about to change.

As the Governor pulled away from the most recent group of supporters, Dominique stepped out from the shadows. The overhead lighting was perfect, a spotlight for her entry into the room. She stepped into the light and walked towards him, catching the Governor’s eye. Before his wife even had a chance to put her arm through his again, he was making great strides in Dominique’s direction.

“Ah, Ms. Winters, it’s wonderful you could join us this evening.”

Extending her hand towards the Governor, Dominique willed herself—as she had done every time she interacted with ‘Bucky’—to smile.

“Mr. Governor, I’m sure the pleasure is all mine.”  Dominique responded her words coated in honey.

Dominique’s hand stayed, her eyes locked with his a moment longer than would be appropriate—a point not lost on Mrs. Williams.

“Bucky deahh, I’m going to get another drink and visit with some of the ladies. Do you mind? I’m sure you and Ms. Wintahs have business to discuss.”

The esteemed Mrs. Williams produced a smile constrained by the skin pulled taught on her face. Distorted after so many procedures, Mrs. Williams looked like a caricature of her old self. Dominique turned towards the departing Mrs. Williams. She wasn’t ignoring the Governor, but rather giving him an opportunity to take her in.

Turning back to him, she said, “Mr. Governor, the time-frame to make a decision is closing. We need to talk, but it may be better done in a place…” Dominique leaned in towards the Governor and added, “a little more private?”

The Governor’s eyes glistened. She had his attention.

“I have a suite in this hotel if you would like to discuss things. It would be private.” Her words were slow and deliberate.

Dominique thought dear Bucky might explode. He reminded her of a golden retriever salivating as he waited for her to throw his ball.  As if she read his mind, she added, “Mrs. Williams will be fine for a little bit. She is more than occupied with the DAR chapter here.”

The Governor for once appeared at a loss for words. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Ms. Winters, why that is an idea alright, but I’m afraid it might look a tad improper for me to be seen leaving with you.”

Dominique leaned in towards the Governor’s ear, intoxicating him with her Opium perfume and whispered, “Oh, we wouldn’t want that now would we?” Then she slipped the suite key into his pocket and added, “Suite 1102. I will meet you.”

With a quick turn, Dominique walked towards the door, her black stiletto heels clicking on the wooden parquet floor.  As she made her way through the crowd, it parted. Both the men and women in the room eyed her. The men wanted her, and the women wanted to be her.

Her key slid into the door. Dominique had only a sliver of time before it would open again. She needed to work quickly and make sure everything was set.  Dominique walked over to adjust the bouquets of red roses strategically placed on the room’s tables, flanking the large flat screen television. What the Governor didn’t know was that within these roses was a little something special.

The door slowly opened.  It was funny how a man as powerful as the Governor could also be so tentative. Men are such interesting creatures and so easy to manipulate.

“Governor, so glad you could join me.  I’ll get you some bourbon and we can have a little chat. Please, have a seat.”  To make sure he sat where she wanted him to, Dominique gently held his hand and guided him to the couch.

Returning to the small living room within the suite, Dominique sat down on the couch opposite from the Governor.  She positioned her body in such a way the slit from her dress slid apart to reveal her long lean leg and delicate foot in the black stilettos.  In return, the Governor leaned back as if to get a better look.

What a fool.

Time to get down to business, Dominique began,  “Governor, you’re aware Yashiro wants to establish a presence in South Carolina. Their business would be good for jobs and the overall local economy.”

The Governor took a long sip of his drink.

“Ms. Winters, I’m afraid what you’ve been proposing is simply not possible. As I’ve told you before, we have a strong relationship with BMW and the land Yashiro wants conflicts with our relationship with BMW.”

“Oh sir, now that’s where I think you are wrong.  A deal with Yashiro would be so much better for all of South Carolina, and most of all for you.”  This last comment piqued his interest.

“And just how do you propose this deal might benefit me personally?”  The Governor asked. A small bit of white spit formed in the crevices of his mouth.

She had given him every opportunity to play fair, to agree to the deal and each time he rejected it. Governor Williams did not play fair—he was a man who had never played fair.

Looking directly into his eyes, Dominique leaned forward enough to ensure that Bucky had a front seat view of her breasts barely contained in the dress. “Do you believe in secrets Mr. Governor?”

The Governor shifted his weight on the couch, unsure of where this might be going, but eager all the same. He answered her, “But of course Ms. Winters. There are always benefits to having some secrets. What kind of secret would you propose we have?”

Dominique waited many years for this moment—too many years.

“Oh, Bucky. I’m sorry, Mr. Governor. You see I feel so comfortable around you, well I slipped right into calling you by your nickname. It’s almost as if I feel I know you. “

Unsure of what was transpiring, the Governor pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped the sweat dripping down is obese face. As he did so, Dominique stopped a moment and pictured him as he was when he was younger. The years before the rich foods and too much alcohol had taken their toll. He might have been handsome even, at least on the outside. On the inside, he was as spoiled now and he was back then.

Dominique continued, “Bucky, you and I share a little secret. We both know someone very, very well.”

The Governor’s eyes darted. He was searching, trying to make a connection.  Unable to make one he asked her, “Oh really, and who might that be?”

Her eyes focused intently on him.  “Susan Clarkson, the waitress you raped thirty years ago.”

The light of recognition lit in the Governor’s eyes. A flicker of panic and then, surprisingly, he smiled and said, “I’m afraid I don’t know who or what you are talking about.”

Dominique had prepared for this. “Oh but Bucky, you do know her and she knows you and your father and all the people who came to her, trying to buy her off. Even more so when your people watched her belly expand with each passing day and then the birth of her daughter almost nine months later.”

The Governor slammed down his drink, bourbon spilling on the glass coffee table. “This is ridiculous. How do you even know about that woman.”

“That ‘woman’ is my mother, and I suggest you treat her with more respect than the night you raped her. “

The color drained from the Governor’s face and he shrunk back into the white leather couch.  Poised with her next move, Dominique smiled.

“That sir is precisely why you are going to follow my specific instructions.  All these years she maintained her silence. She held your secret and raised me.  She did it not for you, but to protect me.  Now you need to repay your debt and agree to Yashiro. If you don’t, this will be exposed.” Bucky looked as if he might be sick, a fact that made Dominique smile a little on the inside, so she added, “All of it exposed. You see Bucky, I have a little insurance policy in place.” With that, she pulled up their live images on the television screen.

“The whole thing is recorded. All of it. All the documents that my mother kept are now in my possession as well.”

The Governor was trapped; there was no way to escape his current predicament.  The groundwork was set, and the deal would go through; a deal which would allow her to make a nice fee she could set aside for her mother’s retirement.

Perhaps the most entertaining thing for Dominique was that the Governor “thought” she was his daughter, when, in fact, she wasn’t. The day before her mother was raped she spent the afternoon on a picnic with the boyfriend who would later become her husband. This was the man who was actually Dominique’s father.  But you know what they say, “Some things are better left unsaid.”

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Uma Gowrishankar –Slant of the Sun

Inspiration Piece

Christina Brockett- The Collector

Response Piece

The pink lady stood, her perfectly manicured cotton candy colored clapboards stretched between arms of white trim and gingerbread. The sun reflected off of the metal, standing seam roof while the salt filled wind blew the rocking chair on the lower of the porches which extended across the front.

She was empty now.

News of Bessie’s passing traveled quickly within the Key West community. Years ago she stopped cooking, preferring to eat instead at the different cafés in town. She said that eating in the cafés was like eating with family. It wasn’t just that she knew all of the owners and waiters; it was as if this was her town, and we were all guests at some grand dinner party of hers.

If you were a tourist lucky enough to eat near Bessie one morning, afternoon or evening, you would leave Key West just a little richer. See, Bessie was a true Salt Water Conch—the name given to inhabitants whose families came from Europe, to the Bahamas and then settled in Key West. And although she was ninety-five, her sharp mind could recount the history and events of the Keys in incredible detail. These stories she shared vividly with anyone close enough to listen.

Standing here, in front of the Bessie’s house brought me back to the morning when I first met her twenty years ago.

The first day, after I settled into my house on Caroline Street, I sat on my porch holding a hot mug of coffee. Across the street, I watched this sprite of a woman with white hair, flit around the impeccable garden in front of her pink house. Not even five feet tall, the thin boned woman looked incredibly frail to me, but I soon realized that Bessie was anything but.

I watched as this elderly lady carefully pruned and weeded her garden beds. I’m sure it was just my imagination, or maybe just the way the light changed with the slant of the sun that morning, but it seemed that her presence among her flowers caused the pinks, purples and yellows to explode with color.

Entranced with her flowers, I was startled when I heard this voice yelling at me from across the street.

“This isn’t some show. If you’re going to watch, you might as well come over and introduce yourself, so I know who it is I’m entertaining.”

There Bessie stood with one hand on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the mid-morning sun. A broad smile extended across her face. A smile which turned into a belly laugh as she soon realized that she had startled me, and I was now covered in coffee and cream.

Although she was smiling, something in her tone indicated that this wasn’t a request, but rather an order. This command I obeyed as soon as I could wipe up the pool of coffee that was spreading across the white boards of my porch and dripping from my arms and down my legs.

“I’m Bessie Johnson. And son, who might you be?” She said, her steel grey eyes staring up at me.

“I’m Gregory, ma’am.”

The words tumbled from my mouth and all of my Manhattan sophistication disappeared. Suddenly I was that eleven-year-old boy in standing in front of his new headmistress in his boarding school in Upstate New York.

“Well Gregory, it’s nice to meet you. Since we’re neighbors, we might as well get to know each other. Follow me and we’ll have some iced tea.”

Again, it wasn’t a request but a command. I felt like a giant following this little woman as we wound our way through the stone path leading to her back yard.

The back yard opened up and was even more spectacular than the front. Here, the traditional house gave way to a tiled patio and a garden full of flower beds and clay pots filled with more tropical flowers. While waiting for Bessie to return, I studied the pots flanking the seating area that were filled with red and yellow blossoms.

The abundance of color found in the gardens and homes of this town was in such a sharp contrast to the coldness of the concrete and stone that permeated much of New York. Looking back, I really think that it was this warmth that drew me to relocate to Key West.

Balancing a tray between curled, arthritic fingers, Bessie had returned with our iced tea. She placed the tray down on a small table between two high-backed rattan chairs and motioned for me to take a seat.

Breaking the silence I asked, “Ms. Johnson, your gardens are beautiful, what are those flowers?”

“Well first off, it’s Bessie, just Bessie.” Leaning towards the two potted plants closest to her, she pointed first to the red one. “This one is a hibiscus, and the yellow one over here is a form a primrose.”

She paused. With her head cocked slightly to the side, I felt her eyes studying me.

“You don’t know much about gardens do you son?”

It was a statement really, not a question. Before I could answer her, she added, “Well, that’s okay. I can teach you all about the flowers and plants around here.”

And she did.

I learned not only about the flora and fauna of southern Florida, but about everything associated with the Keys, and most specifically Key West.

Over the course of the last twenty years, as I would accompany her around town, or we would have afternoon or morning tea in her garden, she recounted story upon story. She told me why most of the houses in Key West have metal roofs. She told me about Sam Filer, her grandfather, who was a lumber merchant and shipbuilder who built the historic house on Eaton Street. She showed me the conch that was left on her parent’s front porch when she was born–a tradition among the natives of Key West. She told me all about the 1935 hurricane that came through when she was just a little girl and cut Key West off from the mainland. She told me of her memories of Earnest Hemingway. She told me about living here during World War II and about losing friends to polio. She taught me about the history of cigar making and of all things Key West.

Bessie was a collector. Not of things, but of memories and history. She felt that the world was richer when people understood more than just what appears on the surface. Having come from a world where daily life moved faster than most of the country, and where people kept to themselves, this idea initially was strange to me. People I knew didn’t spend a lot of time reflecting, and they certainly didn’t make an effort to share their memories.

But Bessie did.

Bessie knew that she was one of the few true natives and one of the oldest residents of Key West.  Somewhere along the way, she turned it into her mission to make sure that these memories and stories lived on beyond her. And as any visitor or local could tell you, Bessie’s stories did—including the story of the little woman with the shock of white hair, one of the last remaining Salt Water Conchs.

And so on this day, the restaurants will all leave an empty table and chair out for Bessie and I will bid her a final goodbye.

Uma Gowrishankar- Dragonfly

Response piece

Christina Brockett- Dragonfly

Inspiration piece

I drift on the air. Again, I search for you.

There you are, standing alone by the water. The breeze that carries me combs through your hair. You look down and trace a figure eight in the white sand darkened by the most recent wave. You bite your lip as you have done since you were a child. I miss that, my Little One.

Unnoticed, I fly by. My clear wings struggle against the wind, but I am able to see your face, your eyes. Although you are staring out at the calm waters stretched before you, your eyes instead reflect a raging storm.

My time on this plane is coming to a close. Again I will return to a being of light. But I struggle once more to reach out to you, my Little One.

The salt laden breeze abates and I circle again. Deliberately I drift down, landing on the soft hair of your arm. My sheer wings are made visible by a thin, dark outline. My iridescent green body shimmers with the diminishing light of the day.

Looking down, you see me. The ends of your mouth curl in the slightest of smiles.

Momentarily your blue eyes reflect calmness, rather than the tempest that I know has been plaguing you.

Your thoughts drift off to our other encounters this week. You know it was not by chance.

I don’t have much time before the wind once again tears me from you and I return to the light. I will try one last time to impart my message.

“Little One, look beyond the surface and follow your heart. You have the strength to achieve that which brings you joy. This joy will bring you peace. I love you.”

A gust swoops in, and I am pulled from you towards the mountains of clouds above. You watch me until I am no longer seen. With that, I disappear again into the light of the setting sun unsure if my message was heard.