The Snake Charmer

 

            Nothing would grow in the yard—not grass, not flowers, not even weeds. It remained a plot of dirt, as they found it when they moved into the newly built home with white walls and white carpet. The house stood at the top of a hill, at the end of a street that had no name yet, because the city had forgotten to give it one. Kim had a good history with plants, as did Anne, but neither could make it happen. One thing they could grow, however, was rattlesnakes. The creatures pooled at the back fence, made of chicken wire, so they could not work their way through. Yet somehow they did.

            The Saturday of their first week, he sat on the porch, knowing of the rattlers, but intent on having his time outside. Early March had come, chilly and refreshing. He had on his thick back-East sweater, with the collar zipped all the way up.

He wouldn’t have chosen the magazine on his own. The New Yorker reminded him of the best and the worst of New York literary mores—the nit picky lines of favored poets which stretched the mind, not at all, and the newest short stories of well-seasoned writers like Mary Gordon, which he waded through wimpy cartoons to find, usually placed near the back. It was a gift from his brother Jeffrey, who often had a critical article on some new or old poet. He had written a book on the Romantics, Jeffrey. His father bragged about him to Kim, whenever they spoke. “Oh, Jeffrey’s got a new article out,” he would say, his voice audibly rising like the moon in the sky—when full you couldn’t miss it.

Thanks to his original passion for literature, Kim had met Anne at Rutgers, she doing her dissertation on Poe, he on Twain. That was the story they always told people. The truth was different. They had actually met at a gas station in Virginia, each on their way to settle in at school a week before classes, his down comforter bulging in the back seat, her things neatly packed in bags and boxes. They recognized each other in the lecture hall later that week.

Back in college, Kim had held hopes of becoming a world renown critic, but instead had become a librarian in northern California, in Pittsburg, just twenty minutes drive from their new home. Anne had succeeded in pursuing her chosen path, a writer of articles on literary figures, as well as a consulting editor for well-paying companies in San Francisco. Mostly she worked from home in the comfort of her office.

            As Kim was peering at a silly cartoon of a white bear and a squirrel, he heard a squeaking noise. Following the plaintiff cry, he landed his gaze just outside the protective fence, on a small brown animal. The mouse squeaked at regular intervals, but what was its concern? A moment later, he saw the cause—a snake reared its neck and head, ready to attack. The mouse, frozen in fear, did not run. In an instant, the snake had it by the head, the tips of the whiskers quivering from the jaw, what was still visible.

He couldn’t look away. The snake appeared to be squeezing the mouse's body, this morsel not progressing much further inside, frozen as the reptile's inner juices consumed it. He couldn’t hear the snake at all, could only see it coiling and shifting, like a woman rolling a stocking onto her leg. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, Kim threw the magazine onto the chair, grabbed his glass, knocking a few ice cubes out, and went inside.

            The next day, he drove up his steep street towards home. It was only noon. The wind blew the leaves off the trees easily, for they were still young. On the plum trees, little buds began growing like bunions from elbow and knees, the first sign of Spring. The trees had survived a winter of daily rain, deluge to the point where gutters were useless, and the murky liquid had run like watercolors down the sidewalk.

            He pulled up into the driveway. Anne wouldn’t understand, he thought, sharp pains like pins pricking his forehead. The incident at the library this morning hammered into his head. Why did he feel this way? The last time he was covered in shame, like mud, was when he was twelve, when he stole a watch at a department store and his father spoke to him in a tone he hadn’t heard before or since.

            Margo, one of the assistant librarians in training, had come in two hours late. Anticipating the due date of her baby girl for months, she had come in more and more bellyful, so that, unable to squeeze through the turnstile entry, she entered through the emergency gate, which beeped each time. Today, she arrived with a flat belly. A wave of silence came from her, surrounding her. Her form was not just flat, but deflated, the pale look on her face a testimony to her experience. Everyone crowded around Margo, patting her on the back or hugging her gently. Margo. Her eyes were red but could no longer cry. Even the mean head librarian, Mrs. Ward, “The Vulture” stood to the side patiently for a few minutes, allowing this to happen, seeming to connect with the tragedy at hand. But then, she clapped her hands, saying “back to work!”

            Kim, back at checkout, counted the seconds by his pulse, and waited, knowing she would make her move. He had been pleased for Margo, with whom he talked to many times about their literary indulgences, and, as she became rounder, he enjoyed her letting his put his hand on her stomach to feel the fetus kick, and listened while she confided in him of how she had been told she wasn’t fertile, but then the surprise to she, her husband, and the doctors, when she became pregnant. They would stand out of range of the Vulture and whisper. He told her that he did not have any children because he and Anne chose not to, but that, as the eldest brother, he had a lot of experience with kids. He reveled in her joy and the pink color which became more present on her cheeks as the months went by.

Then the yelling started, jolting Kim out of his reverie. This was nothing new, as the Vulture had verbally ripped through the muscles of enough employees in his time, three years now, since before they bought the house, when sometimes he would straggle in a few minutes late from of his longer commute from Berkeley. He had received the eye of The Vulture during those mornings, and would peer back at her with skinny pupils to dissuade her, succeeding where others fell into her lap as prey.

All because her husband died a long, miserable death, and the fact that she took care of her mother, a woman who, from all reports, had beaten Mrs. Ward when she was little. The result, her misshapen nose, which hung like a watering bucket, the kind with the long arching spout, and in her case, the bone curving out, in, then down. If she ever cried, which Kim doubted, the drops would linger on the end of the spout before falling into her mouth.

            Normally, library customers would look up momentarily roused out of their meditation on books, but today, browsers at the computer catalogues, people in the stacks, and even the most lowly employees shelving in the rafters, stared unashamedly at this display of the Vulture, her arms extended as if about to fly, her voice striking out against the dark wooden walls of the old interior, which tried to absorb it but couldn’t.

            Kim knew that Margo, in her weakened state, could not survive this—the yelling, the insults, the threats. He had to act. He jumped off his stool and pushed the low swinging door, making his way past the computers, past the regulars, who, mid-morning, had nowhere else to go, the long-haired woman who greyed with every week, her eyes under scored, the elderly man with a full head of auburn hair, miraculously, whose suspenders held up natty wool pants, the young black woman with her over-sized backpack, which she never took off and a frizzy natural hairdo, wide like a lion’s mane, her eye sockets bulging. They all inched forward, crowding around the two women. Kim had to push through to get to the heart of the scene.

            “This is the last time you sand bag,” The Vulture said. She pulled at Margo’s arm. “Let’s go to the back room,” she said to her.

Attempting to pull away, the sleeve of Margo’s long blouse tore. The sound rose to the tall ceilings, echoing, as if many blouses had ripped.

“I don’t feel well,” Margo said, looking pale.

Kim intercepted her, grabbing the Vulture’s arm.

“You have no right getting involved,” Vulture said.

“That’s what you think.”

“Well then,” The Vulture pronounced, “you should both leave right now and don’t bother coming back.” She pointed at Kim with her long knitting-needle forefinger.

“She’s weak,” Kim shouted back.

Margo’s dark curls framed her small round face. The white collar of her blue dress…or was it his mother’s?

Her blue dress. No, his mother’s...
            His mother's white gloves dropping to the floor, as she stood in the door frame of their small apartment in Queens. His younger brothers and sisters making noise in the background. Her body, a sack of flour, falling forward, then sinking. His father rushing around for the ammonia when he should have been calling emergency, the decisive moment of action lost.

At fifteen he was already her height. She was small-boned and delicate. Without her, they had Aunt Itch—they called their father's sister that because she was always scratching her head. This woman cooked and cleaned that week, sleeping on the little sofa in the living room, shuffling the kids off to school every morning, scolding them, and helping with homework all at once. Without their mother, their father wordlessly slumped in his chair reading, eyes focused on the same place on the page while Kim and Jeffrey argued, or two of the younger ones wrestled in the bedroom with the door open for all to hear. Their father lived in his own mind then. They looked to their mother’s return as a mending of misbehavior and overly strict ways of Itch. He missed his mother's soft perfume, which she dabbed on her wrists when she and her father went out. He missed the gentle hug she gave every afternoon after school and at bedtime.
She always wore blue, and it was blue they buried her in. blue forever, like the cornflowers she kept in a vase at the kitchen window.

A loud noise.
What was happening? Not his mother now... The Vulture was screaming at him. He opened his eyes. He had her on the floor, and was hitting her. He felt the hands of people on his arms, prying him off her.

“Call the cops!” she yelled, her eyes a fiery yellow.

When he got up and looked around, Margo had gone. Then he left before anything else could happen.

He sat in the driveway, sunk into his car seat, unable to rise, hands still on the steering wheel. He didn't know what happened after he left, but he imagined that no one had called the police because no one at the library would cooperate with The Vulture. He imagined they had finally revolted. Perhaps she would leave, he thought, entertaining what he knew was impossible. One thing was for sure—he wouldn’t be returning. His heart thumped, pulse in his ears. Removing his hands from the wheel, he rubbed them together. A mixture of sweat and grime covered them. And what else— something red. Dried blood. From what? The Vulture?
He didn’t remember the drive home, couldn’t believe he had hit a woman, not matter how much he hated her. He felt like he was on high speed, even though he was still, sitting in one place.

The garage door opened. Anne walked out, her head cocked to one side. She dressed for summer always, even in this chilly air, with short pants and flip-flops, a lavender tank top revealing her pale arms.

She tapped at the glass with her fingernail. “What are you doing?”

He felt like a fish in a fishbowl. Kim got out, leaving the car in the driveway. He closed the garage door and they went in.

“Why are you home so early, honey?” Anne asked, gentle rise in her voice.

            What should he tell her? What part of the truth did he know? What had actually happened? His head felt dizzy.

“Honey?” Her forehead wrinkled. “You shirt’s torn. Your hair—you look like you’ve been in a tornado.”

He couldn’t speak. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone?

“Come on. Tell me,” she said.

He knew she hated his silence, but could offer nothing.

He opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the back porch. Yes, he would sit as if it were Saturday. The air was crisp, the sky clear. He would just breathe. It was not Anne’s fault that all this had happened, but he had to slow down. He collapsed onto the slatted chair, losing all his energy suddenly. He would enjoy the fresh air, browsing through a magazine.

He heard a rustle. Expecting to see renegade newspaper or a magazine that had blown off the glass topped table, instead he spotted the brown rattler. It stared at him.

The snake seemed to be waiting for Kim to make the first move. His body felt paralyzed from exhaustion from the library incident. Most people would not only expect a quick reaction in dealing with a deadly snake—they would demand swift delivery of the varmint to its death before it got a hold of ankle, wrist, or neck.

He and Anne had joked about one of them getting bitten by a snake. She said they shouldn’t both be in proximity to a snake—that one of them should be safe, and so, with this philosophy in hand they took turns sitting on the porch, ridiculous though it felt. He envisioned flashing red lights racing up the street, blood streaming down Anne’s neck where the snake’s fangs would puncture her.

He could see Anne watching him from the other side of the closed sliding door, in his periphery. Her form shifted, white against the glass.

“Don’t move too quickly,” he heard her murmur.

            He focused on the snake’s eyes. Golden green, they twinkled. Was it winking at him? They reminded him of his cat, Cleo, when she was about to attack, eyes narrowed, whiskers on end, always expected yet in the quick moment unexpected. The snake did not have whiskers. But he did notice the pulsation of what you could call its neck, like a bellows. He could even see, in the coolness, puffs of air released at the same tempo. He thought of the song, “Puff the Magic Dragon,” and how the story comforted him as a child, in how a wild animal could befriend a boy. He was that boy now.

What would possess this snake to make amends with a man, an animal hundreds of times larger than it and clearly a threat. It knew it’s own power. To some, it was an ancient god dressed in gold armor with a sword drawn.

It rose before him, eyes facing eyes, its sides bulging out.

Kim continued to stare directly at the snake’s eyes, trying to intimidate it.

Now, now, Kim spoke silently to himself. He must act, now. But it was too late. Pain shot up his leg. He saw nothing.

He couldn’t move. No knees. Then collapse. He heard nothing save his own shallow breath. He could see only gold.

When he was a teenager, the day his mother came home from the hospital without their new little sister, he had seen her pale face, sunken eyes, the bones above her eyes protruding. Her face was white, then blue, before she fainted. Before anyone could come help her, she faded away.

She could not defend herself against the clawing within. Too early the baby had decided to come, too soon before it could survive outside her walls. There was no blood on the carpet, only light and air coming through the windows of the apartment. One moment she was there, coming back to them, and the next she left for good, leaving his father and all five children in the wake. The little ones danced around in the freedom of her absence as he tried to rain them in, the first few months before they all settled into the grim future. His father drank himself to sleep each night down at the corner bar, stumbling in after they were all asleep, except for Kim, who kept a watch out. The man was not angry, just beaten.

He recalled this time now, sitting there, gasping for air.
Normally Kim was mild. This one afternoon, though, against the Vulture, Kim had used the anger his father was never able to act on. There was no other answer. He could never go back to the boy he once was. He could not protect his mother from the specter of death, not then, and not now.

Pain radiated from his leg, piercing. His chest felt numb.

He tried to sit up, but couldn’t. The cement under him was cold, assuring. Like ice, but permanent.

Someone was putting pressure on his leg. He tried to bend forward. A couple of men lifted him onto a stretcher.

He looked up. Anne bent down and put her hand on his cheek.

Someone was holding his arms down. Someone was putting a mask over his face.
            Air. He could breathe again.

Cleanup on Isle Seven

 

            Amber never believed she would be doing this kind of work. She had brains. But she couldn’t find anything else, and besides, it was only summer. Sure, all her friends had gone to camp, doing crafts and swimming in the Kidd Lake, or were spending months traveling through Europe licking gelato and staring at the cute boys whose fathers had yachts. Instead, she was wiping the windows of the dusty store, head down, slinging a mop to soak up Mrs. Stubbins’ accident, a tower of Coke knocked over by her handbag. 
            The lady should stop shopping. She couldn’t even push a cart, proof being that it crashed into the boxes beneath the Oriental foods section. Amber watched her out of the corner of her eye while the mop head turned from white to brown. Then she wrung it out in the bucket. After two months, she should be used to this, working on this busy street in the flatlands of Berkeley, but she never settled in, instead, a reminder that she had sunk. Her whole family had.

            Her father had lost his job. She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she remembered the roses. One day about a month ago, coming home from school, walking up the path to their house, their wonderful house in the hills, the roses were in full bloom. Pinks, reds, yellows. Her mother took pride in those roses. When she shut the heavy front door, putting her bag on the table in the entry, she heard his voice. 
            It was too early for him to be home from the office. She tiptoed over to the door of his study, where the door had been left open a crack. Her mother’s voice said, in a hush, “embezzlement,” and then his name, “Ernie.” She imagined her mother’s arms crossed because of the soft firmness of the words. And her father—all he could do was say her mother’s name—“Esther,” beginning loudly, but shrinking. This all betrayed the nature of the situation, that it was unfortunate, and their tones stayed with her as she gathered her bag and went upstairs to her room, sinking in the deep blue tones of the walls and bedspread. But that only lasted for a few minutes before she started itching. Sitting down at her computer she looked up definitions of embezzlement on Wikepedia. She knew about the dishonest part, but it was the idea of trust that bothered her the most. Yes, a crime was a crime, but her image of her father as tall and sturdy somehow now crumpled. Too, she thought, they were in for trouble. He was like the men in the old movies she watched, like Ray Milland or Robert Montgomery, with their slicked black hair. For as long as she could remember, he had worn beautiful suits and ties, never looked wrinkled or sweaty. 

            A few weeks after her parents conversation and before her high school graduation, they moved everything that mattered into a truck and hauled it to a two bedroom apartment off University Avenue. The building looked interesting, sure, with Moorish overtones, as her history teacher would have said—white five stories tall, with dirt in the pull-up area in front. She and Sharon would share a room, something they had never done. Her little sister, four years younger, who had a completely different life. Amber had overheard many times that her parents didn’t expect a second kid, but never regretted it. Sharon was the cutest kid anyone knew, and Amber would never get used to hearing the compliments, but since they didn’t see each other much, it didn’t matter. 
            Now it would matter. Amber paled by comparison, literally. Her skin had a pasty shade like glue and her dark brown hair only made it worse somehow. Her fallback was to think of herself as an intellectual, but she did work on her appearance. Anyone at her school who didn’t make an attempt at it was ignored or teased, as she had seen with Julie Winters’ miserable first month there before her parents picked her up one day and took her to another small private school. Nefili Academy had nothing to do with Greek, but a small mix of Berkeley kids whose parents could afford the best, and made a point of letting each other know it every time they met, for teacher conferences or arts performances. She realized now, such a small group of people, and the elite mentality went unnoticed. Egged on by her friend, Jules, she convinced her mom to let her tint her hair blonde. 
            Automatically, her popularity improved. She also got a tattoo, on the lowest part of her back, paid for with from the money her grandparents left her for college. Only a fraction of it, she argued to her parents, who grounded her for a week. It was worth it, at the time, for the coolness factor, and for the boys’ attention. When she got to school, she pulled her hip-hugging jeans down just far enough to reveal the image, a Celtic symbol. 
            The family trip to Europe last summer had included a week in Ireland, and Amber connected with the history and the culture, the music and the spirit. The illuminated manuscripts set a fire in her, and her mother bought her a pendant with three curling lines, sprouting out from each other. It was this design she had set in her flesh. It was Jules’ idea to do the forbidden, but Amber relished it—if she was going to join her friend, she was going to make it something meaningful to her. The artist even happened to know the design. Seeing it in the book she brought, he said, “yeh, real cool.”

After her father got caught, Amber had a few more weeks to finish up and graduate, and her mom said she would have to take the bus up the hill. But it turned out to be two buses. The Academy had been a short walk from their former house. She used to pick up Jules along the way. Now she would have to take three times or more as long. The first car that was sold was Amber’s. Then, her mother couldn’t drive her because they had to sell both cars to pay off the deal her father’s lawyer made so he wouldn’t have to go to jail, along with selling their house. And her mother got a job working for Jules’ father, at his law firm in downtown SF. She and her father rode in together on the train every morning, as he had managed to get a janitorial job for a department store. No one would hire him in his profession, and she wondered how he got a job at all, considering. Together they would keep the family going, her mom assured Amber. But it wasn’t until she was told she would have to work over the summer that Amber really got it. All their savings was gone, and since she had applied for colleges based on her father’s previous financial picture, she was not eligible for loans or anything. She would have to go to the State school nearby. It was all they could afford.

The grocery store she worked in was small—part convenience for students at the University up the street to grab a few items, part necessity for the older clientele who lived in the neighborhood. This accounted for the Mrs. Stubbinses and the young people, and not much in between age-wise.

“Excuse me.”

She looked up to see a guy about her age with stubble around his chin. He was probably in college. Blonde, almost white curly hair, blue eyes, and red cheeks against pale skin. His brightly-colored plaid shirt fit him perfectly.

People didn’t normally ask for her help, instead turning to the older people who worked there, Sinj and Paolo. Sinj was from India and Paolo from Columbia, both thrilled to be in this country, and when they could, they discussed the differences between their homes and here. They normally worked checkout on opposite shifts, but during the peak times their schedules sometimes overlapped. Amber restocked and did cleanup. She wore a full apron, which she folded over, leaving the upper part down she could tie it around her waist low enough. She bunched her wavy red hair back up.

She didn’t think she could help this guy but would give it a try. She put her mop down.

“Yes, can I help you?”

His hands fidgeted in his pockets.

“I’m looking for this kind of soda, but I don’t exactly remember what it’s called.”

His eyes looked directly into hers, causing her to stare away.

“What flavor, fruit or—” She rattled her brains, but she didn’t drink soda. Her mother only allowed real fruit juices in their house. Or did. They hadn’t had juice in a while.

“Are you okay? You look tired.”

She looked at him. What did he care, what did he know. “Look. I’ve got to clean this up.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal. Well, I mean, I did kind of mean to… I’m Tim.” He held out his hand, smiling.

She shrugged. “Amber.” Then she continued with her work.

“Look, I don’t usually do this. Do you go to school here?”

She could picture him in one of the dorms nearby with some buds he hung out with, probably partying Saturday nights, like this one. She better answer him and get it over. Once he found out she was a high schooler, he would be on his way anyhow. “I’m in high school.”

“Really? Me too. Berkeley High. What grade are you in?” His voice smoothed over the high notes—he was mid-range—tenor—if her years singing could tell her anything.

She stopped working. “I’m about to graduate.”

“Me too. I’ve never seen you around though.”

“Yeh. I go to a school in the hills. Or, I have been. I—It’s complicated.” Why was she embarrassed to say it. “Nefli.”

“Oh.” His voice changed, got lower. He looked away. “I really need to get home. I was nice to meet you.”

“Wait. I thought you were looking for a soda. Come on, over here.” She led him to the cold case and pointed to the array of brightly colored drinks, lit from behind.

“Why are you working here, if you go to that school?” he asked, finally putting the pieces together.

She couldn’t tell him about her father, about how they weren’t invited to parties anymore at friends’ houses. How she would fix dinner from a box every night, her sister setting the table while singing. How her parents came home tired and her mother made a salad and they ate dinner in silence, and then her father went straight to bed, not even saying goodnight. How she would stay up reading library books by flashlight for hours while her sister slept beside her in their tiny room. How she had to get rid of most of her books because they had no room, anywhere in the apartment. How Jules had made friends with Mina, their former enemy—Mina, who was the prettiest girl, whose family right now was at the vacation home in Tahoe, and Jules had gone with them. How her pay from this job never added up because it went straight into the family account, except for useless tips that Sinj and Palo split with her. How her sister’s giggling made her cover her ears because she wasn’t supposed to yell. She hated her father for staring at the walls, not talking to them. She hated him for having no room to herself, no time, no friends, and no fun. She hated not being able to stay in her PJs Saturday morning because instead she had to start at the market at 8am. No, she couldn’t tell him any of this.

“There have been a lot of changes. We don’t live up there any more. I have to work here, but it’s not that bad.” She smiled at him, as if to say, it really wasn’t bad at all.

“Hey. You do what you gotta do. My dad was laid off a year ago and my mom has been supporting us. But she’s home today, making ice cream. Do you want to come over later? It’s a big deal, and she wants people around to eat it. My brother and sister, some friends, let’s see…”

She didn’t know what to say. Was he feeling sorry for her, or was he just nice?

“I’ll come back and pick you up—what time?”

He was insistent, wasn’t he? She had to admire that. It sounded so normal, as if she could be folded in the arms of this family. Suddenly, she felt hungry.

“Three. My shift ends.” She could barely speak.

“Okay, then. I’ll see you later.” He grabbed a bottle of orange soda and went to the register. Before leaving, he turned around and waved at her.

She waved back, to signal to him, okay, yes. Fresh ice cream. Her mother had never done that. Maybe their mothers could be friends. Maybe they would go to the same college, right here. She was qualified for Harvard, Yale, and other top-notch schools where she had been accepted, but now she had to stay here.

“Excuse me, please.” Mrs. Stubbins’ voice crackled near her.

Amber looked up. No! She hadn’t finished mopping up the sweet sticky mess of brown on the floor and the woman was heading with her cart towards the spill unaware.

“Mrs. Stubbins!” she called. “Wait!” But she couldn’t hear her, and went right into the eye of the storm.

The next thing Amber knew, Sinj was down on the floor trying to untangle legs and arms of the woman. She looked like a spider, caught in that guk.

“Paolo, call 911,” Sinj cried.

            As Amber approached her building, making the turn from University onto Chestnut, she played and replayed the scene in her head. Mrs. Stubbins falling. Sinj screaming. Paolo making the call.

The paramedics had carefully arranged her onto the stretcher like a chicken in the pan. They took her out to the vehicle, the machinery already in action before the doors shut, one person pumping her chest, another calling out, “one, two, three.” And over again, as the doors shut and the siren began. The three of them stood at the door, watching it peel away. Sinj tried to comfort her.  He sent her home early, saying “let me deal with the owner.”

            She knew this wouldn’t go over well with the owner. The fact of her not doing her job. And all because of the cute guy who she’d never see again. Paolo said she should leave, even though it was only one, two hours before the end of her shift. Time froze. She had nowhere to be.

            As she turned the key in the door she heard her father’s voice.

            “Yes, Max. I blew it. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.”

            He was sitting on the couch, their old elegant piece from the former living room. It looked strange in the apartment’s simple walls and doors, the tiny kitchen and dining table just big enough to fit two people comfortably, but having to seat four. He was hunched forward, as if rushing toward her uncle on the phone, back East. Her father always said he took a risk coming out here all those years ago, that he could have easily “made it” with Max in his firm in New York. But they had argued and her dad decided to split off. Their differences long ago settled, he must not regret his decision, she thought.

He must have heard her rustle.

            “Gotta go, talk to you later.” He turned to her. His eyes were bloodshot, he had bags under his eyes. He wore his brown plaid robe. Dark curly hair fell into his eyes. “My little papoose,” he said.

            It was as if no time had passed and she was younger again. She fell into his arms. She hadn’t done this for a while. In his old study, she used to run in unannounced, as he called it, and interrupt whatever he was doing. He would never reprimand her, always make time, as if she were the most important thing at the moment. Lately, he was always tired and lacking words. Now, he seemed like his old self.

            She inhaled his robe, which had the familiar smell of tobacco from his pipe, though she hadn’t seen him light it lately. And the faint odor of shampoo, from the previous day no doubt. The warm just-out-of-bed freshly baked smell, when skin feels most human.

            “Daddy.” She hadn’t called him that in years. Hearing her friends call their parents by their first names—Rosalie, Don, Jim, Mary—she couldn’t follow, instead graduating to “father” and “mother” from “daddy” and “mommy.” Suddenly it had sounded so juvenile. Her sister still used the old names and Amber was jealous—she couldn’t go back.

            But now it came automatically.

            “You’re home early,” he said.

            “Yep.” She must have had a look on her face, because he took her chin in his hand.

            “What happened, honey bunny?”

            She thought of all the things she could tell him, all the ways to make it sound not as bad. But it was useless.

            “I didn’t do such a good job today.”

            “Oh, that’s hard to believe.”

            “No, really.” Her throat felt sore. Maybe she was getting sick. “It was my fault.”

            “What was? You are such a conscientious young lady.” He rubbed her back to console her.

            She stood up. Her heart was racing. “It was my fault. She slipped. She fell. And now, she’s probably going to die.” Wiping her face with her hand, she could see him looking over at her.

            “Look,” he began.

            “They’re going to fire me. I know,” she said.

            “Listen,” he said. “Sometimes we do things, and we don’t mean to hurt anyone.”

            She saw him then. He was crying. Her father crying.

            He hadn’t mean to hurt them just like he hadn’t mean to hurt people in his business. Why he had done it didn’t matter so much now, as much as he was sorry. She went to him and put her head on her shoulder.

            “It’s okay, Daddy. You didn’t mean it. I know.” And she did know, as much as she hadn’t known before.

            The phone rang, but he didn’t answer. He put his arms around her. “It’s going to be alright.”

The Green Jewel

            He was shocked by what he saw. It was a beetle with folded wings. Fein waited, crouching down among the huge phantom acacia leaves, waited until the thing would fly. He anticipated red between the wings. Farther away, out of one eye but still in periphery, two of them were attached by their behinds, as it were. The front beetle lugged the back one like a tug boat chugging the barge on the brick surface, where the owner of the property had laid them in a box-like pattern.
            Fein had gained entrance to this site, which had a house and backyard, as he had others, with a hook. He told them all the property could be worth much more money than they paid for it.” What he really meant was if the arm of the Federal agency he represented was interested in the wildlife, they would make an offer the owner could not refuse.
            “Incredible,” Fein sighed.
            Only a few years ago the U.S. government didn’t care for anything but the gross national product. And now. It was all about the environment, even if that meant hoarding up countless acres of privately-owned land. The island’s large size made it enviable of smaller island communities and large continental countries alike because what was unmanageable there was possible here.

Aquatomana. He had heard the word a year ago, sunning himself on his Florida Keys porch, on a radio advertisement.
            Tired of the effects of global warming—of the progressively worse hurricanes which ripped through his home and sanctuary—he had taken a leave of absence from the Conservation Commission, feeling the ennui of one who had little belief in the effects of his work, and put his feet up for a change.
            His wife, Marie, had to quell her disquietude, but couldn’t help washing the dishes with fury when she arrived home from her demanding orchid protection job. As she disrobed her gun harness, her water world boots, and the jumpsuit that covered every inch of bare skin save her head and hands, she railed into Fein.  Why couldn’t he get back to work… this… that… Why didn’t she get it, he wondered.

They had met among orchids and raptured in the wild habitat of Florida’s tropical foliage, shared a love of wine coolers and a disdain for the outlaws who wanted to disturb the precious nearly-extinct breeds they both conserved, her the flowers and he the insects. What had they come to, in the wake of his new-found leisure? His knees were burned from all this leisure, she contended.

He looked down at his knees now. A year had passed and he was doing what he dared not hope for. He had a position any environmentalist would envy, cultivating an entire country’s insect population, albeit a small one. He had made a name for himself in the national nature magazines and had gotten two offers of speaking engagements to promote the cause, the first coming the following month.

The beetle flickered in the sun, its grey-black reflective coat fine enough for an evening out on the town, Fine thought, rubbing his sore head. Last night’s events pushed down on his eyebrows. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep and felt woozy. He had finally decided after months here with a book or newspaper, or the odd movie in town, whose theater changed the marquee every few months, that he needed to see a woman’s face, whatever that meant. He could go out all the time, so generous way his stipend, but he didn’t the irony—financially he was free, his wife unimportant, but he had withdrawn like a fern frond into itself.

He had put on a clean button-down shirt, short sleeve, casual but not overly so, and a pair of khaki shorts. He cleaned his glasses with a tissue and brushed the lint away with the tail of his shirt.

Lancie’s bar lay a mile down the road. Starting out on foot at a good pace at 7 o’clock, he arrived by 7:30. He didn’t want to appear eager, nor did he want to get drunk. The last time anything severe had happened with liquor was at a college party with his elite group of upper classmen, when his eyes had crossed.

A yellow light emanated from Lancie’s, the kind reminding him of old car headlights, which these days glared white. The music from within tempted him, a samba, yet made his heart race. He picked a stool near the end of the bar, towards the dimmer side of the square room and ordered a martini. To either side empty booths commanded a view of the floor, where a sole woman danced to the music, arms outstretched, as if a partner shuffled along with her.

“Da da da, da da da,” she sand wordlessly to the tune.

She wore an orange hibiscus flower on the side of her deep brown hair, and her white dress shimmied from side to side with her hips. It was all Fine could do to not stare at this vision. Aman sat at the bar, a few seats away in the wash of lights which illuminated the dance floor. His two-piece suit appeared orange under the yellow light he sat under, but Fein surmised it was probably not so absurd a color.

“Savage,” the man said.

Startled out of his reverie, Fein realized the man was addressing him. “Excuse me?” he said.

The man held out his hand, still sitting on his stool.

“Oh,” Fein said, rising. The man rose, towering over him. He was used to being taller than the men around here, who usually stood a foot shorter. “Fein, Samuel Fein.” He shook the man’s hand.

“Won’t you join me? I’m about ready for another,” the man said.

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

“Chickie, order me one,” the woman chimed in.

“Yes, my little pineapple,” the man echoed.

Fein hesitated for a moment before ordering more of the same for them both.

“Savage, you say?” Fein took another sip of his very dry martini. He expected the bar to fill up by now, as it was almost 9, but he had never been there, so what did he know.

“Ahha! My first name is Altos, but my friends call me Al. My mother played a little trick on me because she was an opera singer.”

Unsolicited information, Fein thought. Little did the man know how unsympathetic an ear he had found. Fein’s mother had tortured him with opera as a small child, booming it from the living room stereo. His room was on the other side of the wall and he stuffed his ears with ripped up pieces of tissue ,or if he was in bed, he put the comforter over his ears.

The man was still going on about opera. Fein recoiled from the heavy warble of women opera singers as they rested on their vibrato.

“I understand you’re interested in property,” said the man.

“No… not exactly.” Did the man know who he was? “Wildlife’s my game.”

“I see. I see,” said the man, smoothing his mustache.

“I hear you’re looking at old Ambrose’s land right now,” he said.

“Word does get around,” said Fein, shifting on his stool.

The man handed the woman a martini.

“Oooh, thank you, Dearie,” she said to him.

Then she appeared suddenly at Fein’s arm, her fingers trickling up his shirt sleeve.

He jerked away from the itchy sensation. Up close, her dress was a light blue and the hibiscus in her hair turned yellow, the wash of artificial yellow light no longer hitting her full force the shadowed area of the bar.

“Call me Tooshie,” she smiled widely, exhibiting a neat row of elephantine incisors.

“Fein, at your service, Miss.”

“Miss! Did you hear that Chickie? He called me Miss!” Her eyes rolled back and she stuck out her pursed lips and hit him on the cheek with them.

Fein’s palms were moist and he felt dizzy. Normally he had a high tolerance. How could he be this drunk after two measly drinks? The room looked full, suddenly, as he looked around at the bar, the booths, and the tables on the floor. The band played too loudly, some old Big Band standard, strangely appropriate for this tiny locale. When had all these couples arrived. Decked out in bird-like outfits, they swayed to the music.

“Come on. Let’s dance,” she said, pulling him onto the floor.

His feet lingered behind while his body motioned ahead. She was a woosh of orange before him. Someone kicked him from the side. Someone else jabbed him with an elbow.

“Careless dancers you have here,” he said to her.

“Honey, we know whose stepping a little off, don’t we? But you’re cute, real cute.” She squeezed one of his ears, and then engulfed him in her arms.

The music had slowed somehow in the time they had been shuffling around, and out of breath, all he could do was let her hold him up, as they continued dancing, too closely for his taste. Weren’t they together, she and the man?

She smelled of old perfume, the kind his grandmother used to wear, from flowered that must have been dried and dead for ages before bottled.

He found himself being led back to the bar.

Stumbling, his legs jellyfish, Fein fell into the man’s arms. Fortunately neither one was holding a drink, as they had set them on the bar. He righted himself and regained his composure.

“I had better be going,” he said to them both. His voice sounded hoarse to himself, as he tried to overcome the decibel of the room. The booths were all full of more than couples—full parties haunted those dark spaces.

“Let me give you a lift,” Savage entreated. Without waiting for a response, a heavy arm lifted Fein by the shoulders as if he were a feather. With Savage on one side and the woman on the other, Fein had no will left. They made their way to the door, carrying him over the frame and down the steps, and to their large car in the parking lot. It reminded him of his father’s Studebaker.

In the morning, he had found himself splayed out on his couch without his shorts on, lipstick on his shirt. His head spun, and the light coming through the front window was mid-day light, too bright. He could not remember anything at all after being set in the back of the seat of the old jalopy. Horrified, he tossed the shirt in the trash and spoke of the incident to no one. The adventure had not solved his lack of female company. What would his wife say now?

The beetle’s wings remained closed. He knew it was the Green Jewel, but without a full examination, he couldn’t fill out the report, and therefore couldn’t recommend the property. He would return the next day.

“The house is unnecessary—what we want is the land.”

Fein knew the voice. The hairs in his ears prickled.

Out walked the man from last night with Mr. Andersen. They both held a glass of what looked like lemonade, and Andersen appeared to be in a trance, staring at his companion and unable to speak. The man continued his conversation, now pointing in Fein’s direction.

“As I was saying, this is the man I’ve been talking to about your property, and I’m sure we can come to an arrangement based on the square yards—”

“Excuse me,” Fein interrupted, standing up, approaching them.

The man looked surprised, but continued, ignoring Fein.

“A fair price to use…”

“Look here. You’re not getting the land, and if you think you can drug someone—”

The man loomed largely before him now. “Watch what you’re insinuating, Sir.”

“Sir, indeed. I have a requisition from the government which takes precedence over anything you can offer.”

“Hah! The government.”

Anderson stood on the sidelines, watching this ping pong game. He said, “true, the government takes a while to act. But realtors, you don’t have to wait.”

“Not anymore,” Fein said. Realtors? Is that was this creep was? A lowly agent? He could be vying for the land for himself or someone else.

It was then that Fein realized how loudly they were all talking. Screaming.

“What, do you have a magic wand?” yelled the man.

They all stopped talking as a wash of white filled the air. It reminded Fein of dandelion frizz, but it was denser than that. He couldn’t see the others. It was as if they had disappeared.

The wind flew up out of nowhere. Then the water came, throwing him onto the ground and pulling him along the bricks over against a tree trunk, where he lay on his side, unable to move, pinned down by the force of the hurricane.

When he arose he realized it must have been more than a few minutes. Water seeped out of his shirt and pants, squished out of his shoes. The backyard had transformed into a marsh, long grass reeds upright and flowing. It was strangely silent. No bird song. No trees rustling. The wind had completely disappeared. The others were gone, blown away somewhere.

The grass shone in the sunlight. He stood, taking in the sight. He moved closer. Got down on his knees. It—they—a whole field of beetles! He couldn’t believe it. The hurricane had come and gone, and had given him a wealth of jewels. All he could do was sit there, his hands on his knees, and laugh.

The Magician

            They called him Jimmy the Magician because he could blow a lick from his sax, playing two notes at once, sustaining it for a whole chorus. He worked in downtown Richmond, miles from his native Philadelphia, yet close to the heart of transplanted jazz and blues. Most people had come out to California to work in the shipyards during the war, finding themselves in a hot pot of juke joints and jazz clubs, but Jimmy had come a decade later, purposely for the strains that emanated in the late nights and early mornings from the corners of downtown. Each night, after his work in the eight-piece band at the Highlight strip club, he would saunter a few doors down in his pin stripes to the Eagle or Dotha’s to join in, and end up staying for hours. MacDonald Avenue was the place.

At the Highlight he was known as reliable and friendly, tight curls circling his large, cheerful face with red cheeks, and the girls liked to tease him. But what they didn’t know—the wide-lapeled manager of the club who hired him seven years ago and the tall loud girls who paraded in front of his music stand every night—was that he could play the sax like a harmonica, with many tones at once.
            He thought he would be famous one day for his special technique, which he had learned when he was a kid in high school hanging out in the clubs when his parents thought he was at Aunt Charlotte’s. One night he saw a flutist play like he was from another planet. The guy had extended the head joint so he could slide it back and forth, changing the range of pitch—he could play higher and lower than other players. But the guy also played harmonics. And now that Jimmy had turned the technique into magic, he couldn’t help thinking about his father, who was cold under the ground, and his mother, who didn’t even know he played at the strip club, thinking instead that he was part of the regular music scene. For all she knew Jimmy was slinging hash to support his jazz habit, her baby Jimmy, the middle of five kids from a small town in Philly, working on a dime. But he didn’t have the heart to break his mother’s dream. His dream. He often thought of her during a performance, as a watchful eye of his knowing past. But some things could not be helped, like his friendliness with the girls after hours.

            How had Jimmy found himself in a strippers’ changing room in a dive off MacDonald Avenue, where the lights on the marquee flickered because they didn’t have enough money to pay the electric bill? He had to use the same changing room as the girls because the place didn’t have enough space for a separate room. The girls told the guys they could share, and he and some of the unmarrieds used the room to change their shirts and trousers after they had sweated them through. Every night, women in various stages of undress filled the room as he took his instrument out of its case. One by one, they came filing in. Often, he pretended to fiddle with one of the keys while they undressed from their layers of skirts, blouses, and nylons, to put on not much more than pasties over their nipples and little coverings for their crotches. Helga the Swede made her own, what she called “merkins,” and each one had a different face. One night she would wear the Groucho Marx one, with stitching making a mouth, cigar, and eyebrows, and another had a horse’s face with a laughing mouth. Over these items came the costume of the evening, depending on what show they were performing, for each had a theme.

After a long night, which he followed with the blues and jazz clubs, Jimmy would crawl into bed at four in the morning, often with one of the girls, and by the time he rose, took a shower, and got some grub at the corner diner, he had little time to do anything else. He wondered, was keeping time with girls after hours keeping him from aspiring to the serious life of jazz, or just bad luck?

            Jimmy had seen all the shows many times—he had seen “Fireflies” and “Spring,” as well as “Oriental Fantasy,” but one night it all changed. He sat down in the band pit as the curtain rose and played a low G, the introductory note, before the manager came out to announce the theme for the evening.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, I present our new show this evening, for the first time, with our new star, Miss Ida Bergman—‘Swans.’”

            The manager always said “ladies and gentlemen,” though there were only a few men who brought their girlfriends, and no wives came.

            Jimmy’s mother had taken him to the ballet when he was a kid before he beat a hot path to jazz, yet playing the overture from “Swan Lake” to a room full of mostly soused men seemed more funny than the tragic mood the ballet warranted. The grimaces of the men in the first row showed that they had been dragged to the ballet by their own mothers, Jimmy thought, but their mouths cracked to smiles as soon as the line of girls twirled out. You couldn’t call them pirouettes really, not that he was any judge, but it was beautiful, more beautiful than anything Jimmy had ever seen, sequins crowning the effect, more elegant than the usual cheap shiny costumes. He recognized each one through the white feathers and sheen of dark blue, the stage lights caressing each form into a real swan, wings slowly beating, sailing, weaving among the others, until he could not separate the individual shapes and it was all a deep blue blur.
            After all the girls had filed in, moving in circles, the head swan entered the room. “Ah’s” came from the crowd now. Looking up, Jimmy missed a few notes of an arpeggio which usually would have been effortless, and found himself hanging off a high F, until Mike the trumpet player hit him on the knee with his mute.

            The star, Ida, was new to the club. Her face, as she danced—or was it floated—to the front of the stage, was a small pale thing with two round pink circles for cheeks. She looked like a clown in a circus, a girl inside a girl, her white skirts shimmering under the heavy white lights. He almost thought she met his gaze as she went by, the orange-colored hair incongruous to her slender paleness.

            After half an hour when the curtain went down, his clothes were wet through with sweat from the hot stage lights. He made his way back to the changing room past the new girl.

            “Are you new?” he asked her. But he already sensed the answer. The manager had announced her as the star and he had spent time with most of the girls and this one hadn’t graced his small room.

            She nodded wordlessly, not meeting his gaze as she mopped off the heavy makeup from her face with a cotton ball. Her wings lay on the chair behind her, yet she appeared nonetheless swan-like, her shoulders proud, her whole being composed, still in the role.

            “Oh, Jimmy, leave her alone,” Mavis joked, rolling off her nylons slowly into the palm of her hand, red hair toppling over her face. “Can’t you see she’s got the heebie jeebies!”

            The long, narrow changing room—cluttered with chairs and lined with a continuous counter on either side and mirrored walls—felt like the side of his mouth after playing for a couple of shows, clammy and airless. But he didn’t mind. He removed his shirt, fanning himself with it, and the girls started whistling. Then he pulled at his undershirt, which clung to his skin.

            “Take it off,” said Ethel, smiling so she revealed her missing teeth. “We’ll wash it for you.”

            They loved to tease him and meant no harm, and it was the closest thing he had to family these days since his wife had left him years ago.

            “Jimmy, this is our changing room, get yourself another,” said Dorothy, hand on her hip, her dress half on, half off. “Hey, Ethel, give me a hand with this zipper.”

            He could dish it back. “Oh, pipe down now, I’m about as hot as a man can stand, and I’ve got much more clothes on than you. I can’t help it if they won’t give us our own room.”

            Dorothy came forward out of the restless but limp pack, pulling her full arms around his slim waist. He had kept in shape for just these moments, punching a bag at Mooches’ a couple days a week, and he walked the many blocks from his place to the club every night, his sax strapped to his back. Yes, her long arms fit around him nicely, though she was a few inches taller.

            “Ooo,” she cooed. “Aren’t we special. What do you need your own room for, when you’ve got us? It’s just like being back at your place, huh?” She took her arms away suddenly and twirled around, cackling loudly away from him, towards the other girls. It sounded like chalk across a blackboard. The rest giggled.

            Mike, the trumpet player, came through and patted Jimmy on the back. “You’re sure you don’t want to come? Beth would be happy to put another plate on the table.”

            “No, I’m okay—I’m heading to the session around the corner anyhow.”

            “Well then, I’ll be getting along.” Mike didn’t sweat as much as Jimmy and never used the changing room except to pass through on his way out to the stage door.

A few of the girls floated over to Mike, littering his cheeks with blood red kisses, which he immediately wiped off with his white handkerchief. “Thanks, the missus’ll love that.”

Jimmy didn’t want pity, but he did enjoy going home with Mike now and again, to an apartment filled with womanly things. Jimmy’s own apartment only had two rooms and he had no table to eat at, always sitting on the big old couch, a leftover from his marriage, the one thing he kept when he told her to take it all. After all, he had spent enough nights on it that last year.

            “Dot,” he said, “you really shouldn’t cause him grief—he’s lucky to have her, you know.”

            “Oh, we don’t mean embarrassment or anything,” she said in a softer voice, looking down now, unsure of herself. She sidled up to Jimmy again. “It’s just that he takes it so well.” She burst into a smile again.

            “Silly Dot, I love ya’.” He squeezed her against him and gave her a peck on the lips before releasing her, her body twirling back to her chair at the long mirrors.

            Then the girls turned, like dominos falling aside, as the new girl emerged from the back. She had changed from her costume into a soft white dress suit and fluffy white coat, and her light brown hair, hidden before with the red wig, fell against her shoulders like long grass, swaying. A pair of clear framed glasses surrounded her pale blue eyes. She had tied a bright green scarf on her neck as she approached the front, so Jimmy could just make out her freckles under a layer of powder, a reminder of the girlhood she gave up and whatever small town she must have left to come to Richmond—it was all written on her upturned face in a mixture of soft and hard lines.

            Dorothy was still on the same note as before. “Come now—don’cha think his wife is used to it by now, every night—”

            The new girl cut her off. “I think it’s high time you act like women instead of tramps.” She put one hand on her hip, the other holding her pocket book close to her other hip. Her teeth were clenched like an animal of prey, and the cheeks that had been drawn on before as round circles now had a natural color of their own—the red of embarrassment. She walked up to Dorothy with small but firm steps. Her head came up to Dorothy’s shoulders.

            Dorothy headed her off. “Big woman ‘round town, huh? Well, Miss—what do you call yourself—Ida. You better settle in before the lights fall down on you—ungrateful—we’re lucky to have a good place to work, and you start thinking you’re any better than us just because you were hired from outside. I used to do the big roles around here.” She boiled, her cheeks puffing out and her eyes getting redder by the second.

            “Now, now, steady on,” Jimmy put his arm around Dorothy. “We don’t want a rift.” He patted her behind, which she always seemed to appreciate.

Dorothy cackled loudly, before pushing the new girl to one side, causing her to trip and land against one of the chairs. “Run along missy, and we’ll see you tomorrow, if you come back.”

“She doesn’t know which way is the entrance or the exit—look, she’s trying to get out,” called Ethel.

“Not surprising, with those glasses,” said Dorothy.

“Oh, look what you’ve done,” signed Jimmy. “Why do you always have to push the new girls around?”

And that was the end of the hubub. They had all started giggling again and no one could stop them. The room shuddered with the force of it as the new girl stumbled out. Jimmy threw his shirt over his back, buttoning it as he could, and grabbed his jacket and his sax, threading through the back stage to the street.

He saw her turning the corner just in time and picked up speed. A few drops came down and he hoped it wouldn’t pour because he hadn’t brought his tight case and had no umbrella.

As Jimmy hit the corner he had to stop, for the girl, Ida, stood just a little way ahead, under a street lamp outside Woolworth’s. Maybe she was waiting for someone. He hadn’t decided what he was going to do or what he would say if he caught up with her. She stood out among the gray and black shadows surrounding the street lights. It was two in the morning and the usual high-spirited crowd was out, stopping into the clubs for a little music and drinking it up. She positively glowed under the lamp in her white outfit.

Jimmy slowly walked up to the girl, still standing under the street lamp, taking long drags on a cigarette—slowly lest she run away from him after her experience in the dressing room. Steam came from her nostrils and smoke from her lips, her pink lips, curled in a sad smile.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“How original—I would expect more from a sax player. My father was the one who used to say…” But then her voice became inaudible.

“What was that? Shall we? There is a diner around the corner. We can have a bite?”

She looked up at him, her bottom lip pouty. “Why should I go with you?”

“Look, I’m sorry the girls treated you that way,” he offered.

“I don’t usually hang around musicians. Everyone knows…”

“All that stuff is untrue. I may seem one way, but I’m not like that,” he said.

“If you have to say it—”

He was blowing it royally. “Please. I would be honored if you would join me for a cuppa coffee.” He extended his arm.

“Very well. But don’t try anything.” And she allowed him to take her arm and they walked around to Al’s.

The glowing red neon sign was always a promise of some hot food and who knew what else, for Jimmy always seemed to meet people there—musicians that popped into town for the weekend or women who didn’t strip for a living—not that they were any better than the girls of the Highlight when it came down to it. Tonight, on the other hand, he would give all his attentions to Ida.

As they slid into the dark red booth, she began. “It happens every time. I can’t work in legit theaters and the whores treat me like that.”

“They’re not whores. You act like you’ve worked in a place like that too.”

She didn’t argue with him. Putting a fresh cigarette to her lips, she pursed them to hold it tight. She squinted her eyes and stared at a spot on the table before removing her glasses and folding them up and setting them carefully on the red mottled surface of the table.

“The girls don’t mean any harm really. It’s just a living,” Jimmy said. “For me, too—I didn’t expect to be there at the Highlight after a few months, and now it’s seven years.”

“Yes, but what you don’t realize—I know these women,” she said.

“And how are you not one of these women?” he asked her.

“Don’t start with me. My father used one, like Dortha there, tall, with a big mouth. She was his assistant.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes but it feel back against her face. Then she took a long drag and gazed out the large window out to the street before continuing. “Did you ever hear of Bergman the Magician?”

He hadn’t heard that name since he was a kid. “No, your father, really? The guy was famous. He had a great act. We saw him in Atlantic City, when we visited our cousins. He made a woman disappear. She stood in a tall box, all tied up with rope, then he closed it, and that was it! I was old enough to know he couldn’t really do it, but it was great, just great.”

Out the large picture window, he saw the moon emerge from behind some clouds before going back into hiding.

He said, “You know, they call me the Magician too.”

“Interesting… Well, that’s what I grew up with. From there to dance school, and now this.”

“I didn’t plan on it either—look at me. You would think I belonged there.”

Again, she pushed her hair off her face, and this time held it there with her hand, elbow on the table. Removing her gaze from the table, she looked up at him, no longer squinting, her eyebrows sliding back into their natural positions. “Look here, Jimmy, we don’t know each other. Even if you did see my father when you were a kid. You know where I was then? In a tiny apartment miles away. I only saw my father’s act three times.

He could hear Atlantic city in her voice now, an unmistakable twinge hidden in a layer of Manhattan overtones.

“I’m sure people thought he was pretty terrific,” she said emphatically.

Her hair had become a mess in front from the tireless way she kept pushing it off her face. His mother had no idea about the women he spent time with.

She blew the smoke in his direction. “Nothing to say, eh?”

“No, I shouldn’t be here myself, but I can’t make it in the big bands, what’s left of them.” Jimmy said.

“How come men only talk about themselves?” she said.

“I was—I asked about you.”

“Where is that waitress. I haven’t eaten since I don’t know when.”

It must have been true. She looked paler by the minute. Jimmy snapped his fingers at the woman standing at the counter, who in turn, nodded her head up and down, but to no effect.

Ida said, “I thought there were a lot of big bands out here still. I see the names on the marquees.”

“Well… if you want to know. There’s Don Ellis—he played with Glenn Miller, Chico Hamilton, Woody Herman gets around… and the combos, we’ve got tons of that here, but I can’t seem to get in solid with any of them. They make a big deal about my sound but they move on without calling me. Then, with the blues, there’s a great piano player right now at Dotha’s, but he told me he’s moving on soon. One day he’ll be there and the next day some other guy will be sitting there playing the blues. The other night this woman, thin black woman, Lady Bianca, ripped right through me with those raunchy lyrics…”

“Come now, I’m sure you’ll go soon enough,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I should be other places too,” she said. “I studied at the conservatory, in New York—I wanted to be a ballerina.” Her chin raised a little higher and she looked like a queen now, commanding a country.

A woman with a stroller came into the diner, passed their booth, the baby screaming. Patrons turned their heads and made cringing faces, diagonal open mouths. The shiny gold-colored paint on the walls seemed to vibrate, the overhead lights shake.

The waitress came by in a crisp orange short skirt, pen and pad in hand, her hair tall to the ceiling with hairspray. “What will you have, folks?” She looked towards Ida.

Ida could only stare and raise her arm, pointing it towards the mother and baby, and shaking, her eyes blinking, as if the waitress was invisible. Jimmy reached over, surprised that Ida’s arm was stone cold, her face more pale than before, her lips white. He got up and reached his arm around her and she felt thinner than he imagined.

Her voice trembled. “See there—look—that would have been me if I hadn’t gone through with it.” She spoke to no one, as if thinking aloud, her eyes searching the distance.

The waitress shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll come back when you’re ready.”

Jimmy took the cigarette out of her hand and placed it in the holder. Her hand in his felt colder. The whole place seemed to shake, as if an earthquake had struck, something he hadn’t experienced yet. He could feel his face turning red and Ida seemed to be losing life, as she continued to become colder.

“Someone call an ambulance!” he yelled.

He frantically looked around, but no one was paying any attention to him or Ida. The couple in the next booth ate their burgers, the waitress stood at a table nearby calmly taking a pencil from behind her ear to write an order. No one seemed to notice them and it didn’t make any sense.

Ida awoke from her state and fixed her eyes on the waitress, who had reappeared. Recovered from her transformation, she was able to  speak in a perfectly calm way. “Grilled cheese and tomato and black coffee. Please.”

Jimmy stood still, frozen.

“Jimmy, have a seat and order,” Ida said, as if she were normal now.

Jimmy slid back onto his seat. He didn’t know how he could talk but he did. “Ham and eggs and coffee, black.” He gulped and gave his menu to the waitress, who took it while staring at Ida before swishing off.

He placed his hand on Ida’s, waiting. But she didn’t say anything and he didn’t press her, reading her swirling delicate blue eyes as they turned darker. They sat in silence while they ate their meal, occasionally their eyes meeting.

Finishing her breakfast, Ida took out another cigarette and lit it, turning her head to one side. She spoke softly. “Look. I know you think I’m pretty strange.”

Setting his coffee cup down, he said, “Oh, I don’t know what to think. First you’re here, then you disappear on me. I though you were gone, but gone where? I don’t know.”

“I don’t want you to think—” she said.

“I don’t know what to think.” His face felt hot again and he pressed the water glass to his forehead. “But I can’t stand much more of this mystery.”

“I’m sorry.” She started to cry for the first time, blue tears falling down her cheeks, giving her face a pink hue.

“What I was going to say was, first you’re dead cold. Now there’s color back in your cheeks like there wasn’t back at the theater. I don’t know what to think,” he said.

“I don’t have much to tell you. I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe we should go. I’ve gotta get going tomorrow.” She started to rise from her seat but paused. “You know, I’m not coming back.”

“You mean you’re going to let those girls run you off?” He couldn’t believe she would let them have their way when he knew if she hung in there they would accept her within a week. He had seen it happen again and again.

He got up and put her coat around her shoulders. She let it swing stiffly against her sides as she swished out of the diner ahead of him.

They halted outside a moment.

“Hold on,” he told her as they made their way to the curb. Jimmy didn’t want to leave her all alone after what had happened.

He walked ahead to hail a cab. A few drops started down. A Yellow whizzed up and he turned around, but she was gone. He ran one way and then the other, down the street, scanning around the corners of the long block. He ran back as far downtown as Woolworth’s and stopped at the lamp she had stood under, which was now vacant of life. Nothing. Breathless, he slumped down onto the bench at the bus stop. Pink edged the horizon. It was late, it was early. Why had she shared her secret with him, and where had she gone so suddenly? He was moving in the opposite direction from his place. Drops started again and Jimmy pulled his jacket around his horn. He got up and raised his arm and a cab lurched out from nowhere.

“Thanks, Mac, East 23^rd and Barrett.”

He was thrown back as the car peeled from the curb and then thrown forward again as they came to a stop light. When they took off again, Jimmy brushed the drops from his jacket. Not many. His hand brushed against something at his lapel pocket and he looked down. A piece cloth stuck out from the pinstripes and he pulled it out. Had something of the girl’s torn off? The small piece felt soft even with his calluses, but he couldn’t make out what it was in the dark.

“Hey Mac, can you flick the light on for a sec?”

The driver turned on the interior light, glaring back at Jimmy through the rear view mirror.

Jimmy looked down at the piece. He smoothed it between his fingers slowly, tears coming to his eyes, then welling up in the corners before falling over his cheeks. It was a piece of white fluff from her coat. He didn’t know why he was crying. He wondered why should he care about the girl, but couldn’t help wondering where the she had gone in the dark morning, leaving him at the curb. Would she come back to the club tonight, even though she had threatened to leave? He continued smoothing the piece for a few minutes before gingerly putting it back in his lapel pocket and faced out the window, long streaks of rain making it impossible to see anything but a shiny darkness on the streets.