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Germaine Droogenbroodt, Spain
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"we will be recognized in one way or another"
Irene Mitta, New Jersey /there was a shepherd boy/his name was nevermind/he wandered the city streets wearing his brother’s jacket/he prayed for miracles/he walked by children playing with sticks and rope/
/there was a shepherd boy/his name was hallelujah/his stepmother called him sweets/he wanted new shoes/ /there was a girl/in her pocket she carried a picture of the sun/her name was irrelevant/when she spoke no one listened except for the shepherd boys/ /one day/when she walked to the corner store/she saw the boy whose name was hallelujah/they joined hands to cross a busy street/the boy whose name was nevermind came to greet them/ /sitting on a curb/they talked about collecting acorns and ate tiny pieces of chocolate/ /there were two shepherd boys/their names were nevermind and hallelujah/they befriended a girl who carried a picture of the sun in her pocket/her name was irrelevant/ "synopsized through a paraphrase"
Joshua Martin, Pennsylvania pertinent bellicose becomes dispersed vassals
heeDeD irritant,documentation gout, horrific ] PANG of dual DuRaTioNs [ several inquisitors lecture priorities rec’d heretical compliance title clear sense apostolic depravity ;; legal BONDS aforesaid serenity ;; :: cloak arrests confessor :: (suffused statis brethren) acquired TuToR aDulT PuPiL – servant assemblies , Annales d’histoire sociale – contrast,ed assistance emerged UnDeR immunity ,pit,ted,canons,imperial,annexations ] Mediterranean instrument,s of enriched fief [ specificities bequeath swallow,ing serious potents last shaking sand,storm admirable pilgrim woe,s all out dissolution arrest,s majority debat,ed rEsIdUe, InStRuCtIvE, BacKgROuNd, >> reproduced w/o permission "clinging keystone territorial plunge"
Joshua Martin, Pennsylvania either catastrophic favor an annulment
preceding waver led astray. [nephew would know a thousand cuts & burst tear duct discontented excuse]. Rec’d confession AFFAIR club ExIt implicit connecting TiSSuE::::: remarkable documentation implying frustrated alarm . Arm hurrying to closet cardinal minding permissive forbidden maze. Coronation to TiP THE Scales [hard subjective ROMAN months] , broadsheet affair (AFFECTATION) <henceforth>, congregation BOOK & MARK [pamphlet vacation tube]. Basilica arrogance:: PORTRAIT of a NiEcE IN consideration. "Apocryphal currencie"
Joshua Martin, Pennsylvania Under domain legendary sword’s edge
occurring as singular mouth domain:: [BLADE consistent w/ animate exalted roots , style retroactively saws an invasive inverse , FULL-circle / DoWn, attestation closes episode]. Reference to land of moving hills massacred in geographical contexts to dimmish unconcerned chance >> proceed,ing w/ visited cautious mutilation,s / HOMEtown FacT & OBjecT & travel , entry into an explicit ashTRAY, impossible to OVERcome & FuRtHeR induced to combine syntax w/ NaRRaTiVe mumbo jumbo , eradicated parallel preposition. [bare solicitous lineage ,, barter cognitive account ,,, ideal donkey ,,,, suggestive endurance a possessive LOAD] Perturbed remnant of kingdoms diving headfirst into putative judges (bolster) (compile) (open) >> SAME MANNER FOLLOW SURVEY << Break … Break … Break … Break … Break … Cultic prefix rather designated to highlight scheming corporation [all declared:: “predict groaning addictive connection , two situations convoluted in battle , ultimate success thematic irony , lexical contrasts record lifetimes” / . / Will go – exchanged – Busy – suctioned – Elephant said – “your horse rebelled against modification” – Recourse – prophetic motif – Stranded – cool – refunded – Excessive cosmos – or work – descriptive – Elaborative throat – Said the mighty – “recent bitterness a storm of sensations” – Former – No ReTuRN – . Lesser vessel , weak pattern,s authorized affront particle , place-name citing HeRd beginning AfTeR architecture [to deliver: protests!], in accordance w/ scenario TrIbeS > depicted confronted standing <. SeCuReD tower photogenic torch , [flame] = [phonetically] = [OBTUSE], height restricting circumstance until impersonal diatribe mocks clarity – seismic element taunted , fundamental , tactile , omitted glare arranged in UNISON. Tolerable status improvised. "what i think"
Eleanor Lepp, West Virginia it’s a very human thing to War. it’s a very human thing to die. to battle. i was thinking of this the other night. not focused on the video i was watching, thinking about the very human things we do. that night i felt like a caterpillar on a leaf, finding comfort in a tree, the ornate design in the bark like dying fingertips. some days i feel like a caterpillar on a leaf. and some nights all i think about is going into battle.
i would tell you everything i think but i know that we are the same a little bit. and silence works wonders when you know what it’s telling you. i think that we are all really the same. and also maybe not. a little bit. i don’t know. i think that we are all really the same. look at how we cry and look at how we laugh and look at how we are scared. which i think makes it all worth it just about. i am sad sometimes but i also like to remember that i am lucky. that i am here. that i am held. that i am the earth and i am everything and i am really not that much at all. i think that we are all really the same. i also think that some people think it’s a mistake that we are here that our brains developed too much that we have too many toes and fingers and too much object permanence. but i don’t know. i don’t know a lot of things, really. i’m not a scientist. but i think that something good has to come out of all of us being here. maybe it was a mistake. we’ve done a lotta bad, it’s a very human thing to battle. i think that maybe even if just a little bit of good is here then it wasn’t fully wrong. and i know just a little bit of good is here because i’ve met it and i’ve made it and i know it. i know so much good. i know good about words and about music and about the earth and i do know good about people. i know lots of good about people. i like to think that maybe if it was all a mistake then we are at least unexplainable. because we do laugh and we do have fun and we are part of the earth. my feet touch grass and i am a tree. tell me i’m not. tell me where the ground ends and i begin. try it. i think the earth is a forest. we’re all trees. or caterpillars. maybe both. it’s a very human thing. we’re all really the same. "burn burn"
Eleanor Lepp, West Virginia he ended up burning his fingers poking someone else’s fire
burnt ash skin black coal fingers. burnt ash skin. his fire ain’t burnin the way a fire should. and he already turned fingers coal black in his own ash. in his own. burnt ash skin black coal fingers. he’s no light now. no light. no fire. his fingers burnt. coal black. coal lives inside mountains under evergreens where fire don’t burn. except maybe under sometimes fire burns under the mountains under the trees it burns inside the mountain burnt ash skin. coal black fingers. i think he’s scared of the dark. "unsure deaths"
Eleanor Lepp, West Virginia poem a.1
walking towards me in the distance, still, hands made of cracked tree branches you lurch. poem a.2 there’s a homeless woman who stays downtown where i work. she makes me sadder than the rest because her face looks like it was made to smile but her features are always contorted into the saddest look i’ve ever seen on someone. she has taught me a lot, i’m sure, i just don’t quite know what yet. a.1 you don a pointy hat. fabric keeps your guts from spilling but i know. i know they’re squishing around under the thin fabric of your holy robe. a.2 my sibling told me i have an affinity for loneliness. they’re not wrong, i like moments lonesome, steeping in the empty air around me slowly like tea until we are one and the same. a breeze, a warm drink. a.1 from the fog you emerged. i suppose you were born there but there’s no way to tell for sure. no one witnessed your birth. no one will witness your death. no one knows if you will ever die. a. 2 my best friend asked me how i keep my happiness from relying on other people. a question i don’t know how to answer other than telling her that i know what loves me. the sun, the moon, warm drinks and loneliness, branches born of mist and unsure deaths. poem b.1 i counted recently, out of the 27 poems i have saved in my poems folder on my phone, 25 of them are either about or mention death. i suppose that now makes 26/28. maybe i am the one lumbering. maybe my arms will one day break and turn into branches that reach and my guts will spill and i will be a creature of unholy salvation but i don’t think i will be. i don’t think i am. there are things that love me, you know. poem a.1, a.2, b.1 lessons learned from faces made to smile. affinities for loneliness. turning into tea, breezes, warm drinks, moons, suns, 26/28. "The Fence"
Charles A. Swanson, Virginia the calling flashes
like a firefly off and on distant beyond creek I think beyond fence I count but one all cows, calves I listen between thuds pounding posthole digger stubborn earth unsteady time to time calls pulsate from dark woods I find her outside where I feared the pasture she longs to get back once outside she finds escape but not return a week or more again and again I put her in I stop up gaps strengthen wire plant posts she gets out can't get back along the line I find her not distant not running away if she can find towards what she’s calling her dead mother or the other one side this old fence "A Dozen Detours of Discourse"
-- For Jack Campbell of the Permian Basin Charles A. Perrone, California A friend pretended to phone it in but all realized he was a phony.
A citizen submitted petitions that lost each and every competition. A lover whispered sweet nothings that turned into sour somethings. A politician made an ample appeal that was unable to ring any bells. A negotiator emitted offers and entreaties but no deal was ever signed. An official issued a currency warning that was ultimately paid no heed. An organizer shouted a call to arms but proved to have no legs. A muezzin recited a call to prayers that too soon fell prey to citation. A boss called others on the carpet discovered to be a slippery surface. A couple of poets feeling a calling penned an encompassing metaphor, which met a formidable resistance, so instead they rhymed a lament, which, by now ( at this point in time ), just must be ready to be sent. "Found: A Poem I Don't Remember"
Benny Becker, West Virginia "A Milkman's Serenade"
Mark Blickley, New York
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Avant(Stories)Please make sure to address story submissions to Dave Sykes. Thanks!
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"Mirror in the Dark"
Wendy Wilson, North Carolina
Wendy Wilson, North Carolina
Julianne sighed and rubbed the rain darkened window with her handkerchief, trying to clear the fog of her breath from the glass. She succeeded only in smearing the image in the glass from a delicate, dark eyed ingenue into a warped and wrinkled crone. The crone winked and a burst of lightening flashed across the night sky.
"Oh!" She jumped back with her fingers touching her lips before leaning close again to the window. "That was unexpected."
Another flash of lightning and a sharp clap of thunder made her jump again. This time her father’s old hound dog, Blue, lifted his head and whined in worry. Too old and worn out to do more than complain about the noise, he settled back into his basket before the fire with a heavy sigh.
Julianne walked to the chaise, her whale bone corset obliging her to walk erect as one of the Confederate soldiers she had cheered for a few short years ago. She absentmindedly patted Blue’s head and shifted her crinoline skirts, so Blue's runny nose didn't leak onto the hem. The shawl she wore spilled off her shoulders and a shiver ran through her despite the wool fabric of her dress.
She tossed another log into the fireplace and contemplated lighting the oil lamp sitting on the writing desk by the door. Deciding that the evening was early enough to be worthwhile, she took a taper from the holder on the mantle and stuck it in the fire. With that small blaze, she lit the desk lamp and adjusted the flame. The wick light sent curls of black smoke into the room. She opened the door and summoned the maid Daisy.
"You didn't trim the wick like I told you to do, did you?"
Daisy curtsied and hung her head.
"No Miss. I'm sorry. What with Cook gone to visit to her dying sister and the sl-"
"I understand you have had more responsibilities now that the slaves have all run off, but am I supposed to sit in the dark?"
Another curtsy. Daisy looked at the lamp, sputtering but giving off a strong light.
"No Miss. Do you want me to get another lamp? I think the one in the pantry is fine."
"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know what I want!" Julianne's fingers twisted a ring on her finger. "Where is he? Why isn't he here?" She collapsed upon the chaise and sobbed into her hands. Daisy shifted from foot to foot not knowing if she should leave and get the lamp or comfort her mistress. She decided to soothe Julianne and knelt before the distraught woman.
"I'm sure it's just the weather Miss. It's pure buckets comin' down out there. Even deaf Ole Blue here can hear the lightnin' and thunder in his sleep it's that loud. Maybe..."
Julianne whipped her head up.
"Don't say it. Don't you ever say it. Beau will come. He survived the War of Northern Aggression, and he won't let a little dampness stop him from coming to me."
Brilliant light lit up the room, leaving sparkling dots in their eyes. A crack of thunder blasted their ears. Blue moaned in his sleep and twitched. The two women clung to each other for a moment. Daisy jerked her hands back and rose from her mistress. She went to the rain pelted window and pulled the curtains closed before lifting her head.
"Miss." She stammered, "I'm not sure Master Beau will be coming tonight. You know my old Gran has the sight, don't you? I mean she can See things."
Julianne's eyes narrowed as she stood and towered over the frightened maid.
"And just what does this have to do with my fiancée riding to court me?"
"Well, it's just that... I heard... I think..."
"You heard what?" Julianne grabbed Daisy's apron front and shook her. "Tell me. Speak or so help me, I'll...."
"My Gran could use mirrors and See the future and she said your fiancée wasn't coming here to woo you, he went courtin' someone else, the rings he promised you, he's gonna give to another." Daisy drew in a breath, waiting for what the other woman would do.
Julianne stiffened and turned slowly to the window, her back to the maid.
"So, your grandmother has the gift of clairvoyance, does she?"
"Clar...var...?"
Julianne huffed.
"Clairvoyance. The Gift of Seeing Beyond. You say your grandmother can peer beyond the veil."
"I don't know 'bout a veil Miss. But my Gran can See things that will happen. She taught me how."
"How?"
"With a mirror Miss. And it has to be dark too."
"Like tonight."
Daisy gulped.
"Yes Miss, dark like tonight."
Julianne whipped around; her hands planted on her hips. She scowled and bobbed her head.
"What are you waiting for girl? Go fetch me a mirror. I dare say this night will be dark enough for my purposes if what you say is true."
Daisy ran from the room, knocking the chair under which Blue snored. He snorted and looked blearily around the room.
"Go back to sleep Blue. You're not much good for anything else anymore." Julianne paced the room, flinging open the curtains again. Torrents of water beat against the glass and in the distance the rumble of thunder dwindled as the storm faded down the mountain valley.
Daisy paused at the doorway and waited as Julianne walked from window to fireplace and back to window. The maid wrung her hands around the gilded frame of the handheld mirror she carried.
"Miss. I got the mirror you wanted."
Julianne spun around and grabbed Daisy's hand.
"Show me. Show me how to look into the future."
"I forgot to tell you Miss. It ain't always the future. Sometimes it shows what's happening now. I'm sorry Miss."
"As long as it tells me about Beau, I don't care." She sat on the chaise and patted the space next to her. "Sit here and get on with it. I don't want to wait all night."
"A few things we need before we start." Daisy said as she shut the door and clicked home the lock. "We can't have any body walking in on us. "It's gotta be candlelight too, not oil lamp. And the curtains have to be closed." She closed the curtains and lit some odd smelling candles before blowing out the lamp.
Conditions met, Daisy perched next to Julianne and pulled the shawl over both their heads. "Heads gotta be covered too. Close your eyes and-"
"Close my eyes? I won't be able to see the mirror!"
"That comes later Miss. Right now, we gotta go inside our own selves. Least, that's what Gran says."
Both women closed their eyes, thunder rumbling through their heads, fading away into the distance. Julianne followed Daisy's breathing as it grew slower and deeper. When the two women were synchronized, Daisy placed Julianne's hand on the mirror’s surface and chanted;
"Feel the glass, feel your hands on the glass, feel your thoughts go through your fingers into the glass. Feel the glass, feel your hands on the glass, feel your thoughts go through your hands into the glass" Daisy felt Julianne's breaths grow deeper and her body begin to sway as she followed the chant. "Good, good Miss. Now think about what you want to see and then open your eyes."
Julianne squeezed her eyes tighter, concentrating her will into her hands. A tiny tremor rippled beneath them. She tried to pull her hands away, her fear overpowering her desire to see what the mirror would tell her, but Daisy held her in a firm grasp.
"I...I...I don't think..." Julianne tried harder to unwrap her fingers from the mirror.
"You have to hold it close, Gran told me. Or you won't See anything."
The tremors increased until it felt like her fingers melted into the glass. Julianne opened her eyes and stared into the mirror. She dropped it into her lap and gasped.
"Who is that? It isn't me!" Julianne leaned in closer to better see the image staring back at her. "I just saw this face! A few minutes ago, in the window. How... what...? She spun around on the chaise, looking for what caused the reflection of the aged woman in the mirror. No one but Daisy and herself was in the room. The lips of the crone moved. Julianne tilted her head to listen better.
"I am you. You, many years from now." Came a rasping, rough voice. "I know everything about your life and what will happen to you in the future. Ask what you will."
Her lips worked but no words escaped from Julianne's mouth, only a breathless groan. Finally, Julianne could control her voice and with a trembling tone asked her question.
"Where is my fiancé? Where is Beau?"
The face turned away. It shrank to a pinpoint in the mist. Julianne frantically slapped the glass.
"No! Don't disappear! Come back!" She pleaded and thrust the mirror at Daisy. "Tell her to come back!" Daisy nodded at the mirror.
Instead of the vision of an old woman, the form of a man on horseback and the clip clop of horse’s hooves on a rocky path materialized in the mirror. Julianne leaned closer into the mirror until she recognized the square chin and black hair under the dripping wide brimmed hat. A flash of lightening lit the eyes and their cobalt blue sparkled in the flare. In the distance, Julianne almost felt the faint rumble of thunder as the rider jerked the reins of his horse, almost unseating himself.
"That's Beau! He's on his way here!" Julianne grinned at Daisy. "You told me he wasn't going to come! Oh, I hope he doesn't catch his death out there in this downpour." She ran to the window and rubbed the condensation from the glass again to peer into the dark street.
Daisy picked up the mirror from where it had fallen when Julianne jumped up.
"Wait Miss. I don't think you saw the whole picture. Look again. Mister Beau ain't what you think he is."
Julianne tossed her head at what Daisy said but reached for the mirror.
"Oh, all right Daisy. Give it to me."
Julianne gazed into the mirror again, cocking her head and shaking it side to side.
"I'm doing this only because you insist Daisy. He's coming here, even in this rain. He loves me."
Daisy nodded to the clearing image and watched as her mistress folded onto the sofa. Julianne gripped her shawl with white knuckles as the story unfolded in the mirror.
Beau reined in his mount, pulling it back from the crevasse formed by a flood of run-off rain, and glanced warily at the dark clouds above him. Water streamed down the brim of his hat and over the duster coat he wore.
"Whoa Traveler, don't go wild on me now Boy. We're almost there, just beyond that curve." He kicked the horse into a trot. Traveler, remembering the warm dry stable and warm mash that would be waiting, stretched his legs and within a few minutes Beau dismounted in the yard of a small cabin surrounded by towering Tulip and Hemlock trees.
The door flung open and silhouetted in the door frame stood the shape of a young woman. Beau strode to her and picked her up in his arms. Twirling her around, he kissed her hard and reluctantly put her down.
"I have to stable Traveler my love. Then I'll be back to take care of you." He chucked her under her chin and smiled. The girl gave him a sultry eyed pout and went back into the cabin.
The mirror slipped from Julianne's fingers and fell to the carpeted floor.
"Who is that Jezebel? He called her 'my love'. This can't be! We're engaged." Julianne pounded her fists against her legs. "I don't believe it."
Daisy picked up the dropped shawl and wrapped it around her mistress's shoulders.
"Did you recognize the cabin? Could you find it?"
Julianne shook her head.
"Find the cabin? Why would I do that?" Her eyes grew flinty. "Maybe I should find him and throw this, this engagement ring at him. The dad-blasted cad, bounder, weasel." She tore the ring off her finger and glared at it before putting it in her pocket.
"Yes Miss. Did you recognize the trail? I thought I saw the fork to Springfield town right before the cabin. Should I get Jethro to saddle your mare?"
Julianne dashed the tears from her eyes and, through clenched teeth, told Daisy to, yes, get Dolly saddled. After Daisy left, she circled the room. The mirror lay on the floor still. She picked it up and contemplated it. The old crone was gone, leaving only Julianne and the wall behind her reflected in its glass.
A glint off metal caught her eye. She spun around. There, above the fireplace mantle, hanging on its pegs, was her father's Winchester rifle. A smile spread across her face, and she opened the desk's drawers to find the bullets her father kept handy.
Daisy came back to tell her the horse was ready, and the weather cleared enough for the moon to shine through.
"Did you put the rifle holster with the saddle?" Julianne asked.
"I thought you might want it."
Julianne squinted at the maid.
"Why did you do that?"
"You're going out at night Miss. No tellin' who or what might be roaming the trails this time of night."
"Yes, I suppose you're right. I don't know when I will be back. You don't have to wait up for me."
"Oh, I'll do it anyway Miss. Good luck." She picked the mirror up and stood it on the mantle. "I'll take fine care of this."
Julianne mounted the mare and tucked her shawl into her belt. The rain may have stopped but the wind gusted wild in the trees, sending wisps of clouds scudding across the full moon. She reined Dolly to face the road and kicked her into a canter. The horse's shod hooves muffled in the muddy streets as she rode out of town.
Wind cooled Julianne's anger reddened, heated face. She wiped at her eyes, but it wasn't rain causing the blurriness in her sight. Lights from the lamps in the windows of her neighbors gave way to a darkness that matched the emotions raging in her. Dolly slowed when her hooves struck rocks dislodged by the torrents of water spilled onto the trail.
"Oh no you don't." Julianne spurred the mare into a gallop that the horse fought. "Faster Dolly. Faster. D--- him." She called as they rode deeper into the mountains.
Julianne felt the horse's leg drop into the crevasse too late to pull her up. Dolly screamed a shrill neigh as her front legs splayed and she pitched forward into the muddy trail. A snap like a stepped-on twig and another squeal from Dolly and she was down, her left foreleg broken and bloody. She struggled to stand, neighing her pain to the night.
Dazed from the fall and blinded by the wind whipped branches slapping her face, Julianne scrabbled to stand. Her leg slipped and she fell against the thrashing mare. Dolly's cries grew as her writhing kicked up mud and stones until both Julianne and Dolly were mired with black grime and blood.
"Dolly! Oh Dolly! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I've killed you." Julianne knelt by Dolly's head and lifted it into her lap. The mare's struggling slowed, and her neighs of panic dissolved into grunts of pain and fear. Her soft brown eyes sought her mistress's for an answer to her agony. Julianne had no answer except for one. She bent forward and kissed Dolly before rising and going to the saddle. The Winchester rifle lay on the road, undamaged from its fall.
Julianne picked the rifle up and, with fumbling fingers, cocked the rifle. A moan escaped her and for a moment tears blinded her again. Her hand dashed the tears and she moved to Dolly's head. She placed the barrel between the horse's eyes, it wavered until Julianne took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, my love." She cried and pulled the trigger.
***
Beau jerked his hands away from Sally's breasts. The bedcovers slid off his back and onto the floor.
"Did you harken' to that?"
"Did I harken to what?" She murmured as she nibbled his ear. "I didn't hear anythin’. Kiss me."
"There was definitely some..." Beau leaned closer to Sally. "I swear.... Mmmm, You're so delicious...."
"I'm cold. Warm me."
The door crashed open. Sally screamed. Beau jumped out of bed and reached for his revolver. He never reached it. The blast from a Winchester rifle ripped into his chest. Beau stiffened and clasped his hands against the bloody hole. He looked with open mouthed surprise from the mortal wound to the harridan filling the doorway. His mouth moved as if to ask a question and then he tipped forward to fall among the blankets on the floor. Blood pumped from the wound on to the fabric for a few moments and then went still.
Julianne cocked the rifle. Sally screamed and scrabbled like a crab against the headboard.
"Don't shoot me! Please!" She held out her hands to ward off the barrel of the gun that swung around to her.
"Didn't you know we get rid of trash around here?" Julianne snarled and pulled the trigger again.
The rifle bumped against the wooden floor as Julianne slumped onto the stool. A slow moan grew into a shriek. She stood and tore at her hair, her face, her neck before falling next to Beau, hugging the bloody body to her chest.
"No! You're not dead! You can't be! You were going to bring me back a wedding ring!" Her body dissolved over Beau's, racked with sobs tearing through her throat. After an eternity, the sobs turned into hiccups. Julianne pushed herself from the floor and stared at the pale, bloodless lips of her fiancé.
A thought came to her, and she searched his pockets. In the second one she found it. Her fingers convulsed as she drew out the silver band and placed it on her ring finger.
"This is mine. Not hers. Mine. Forever." A strange brightness shone in her eyes as she unwrapped her now bloody shawl from her shoulders and draped it over his face. An unhinged giggle exploded from her. "Mine forever.”
Another cackle erupted and she twirled in the bloody puddle, waving her hands in a free style ballet. She danced through the door and into the moon's light, her deranged cackle echoing in the vale.
***
Daisy lifted the mirror from her lap and waited for the vision to clear from the cabin to the room she sat in. The old woman's face emerged from the mist and smiled at her.
"I told you this was the better way girl. Didn't I tell you?"
"You sure did Gran. To think I was gonna tell what he done to me." Daisy placed her hand over her stomach and frowned. "He got what he deserved."
"No one would ever believe you Granddaughter. No one ever believes the woman."
"Oh!" She jumped back with her fingers touching her lips before leaning close again to the window. "That was unexpected."
Another flash of lightning and a sharp clap of thunder made her jump again. This time her father’s old hound dog, Blue, lifted his head and whined in worry. Too old and worn out to do more than complain about the noise, he settled back into his basket before the fire with a heavy sigh.
Julianne walked to the chaise, her whale bone corset obliging her to walk erect as one of the Confederate soldiers she had cheered for a few short years ago. She absentmindedly patted Blue’s head and shifted her crinoline skirts, so Blue's runny nose didn't leak onto the hem. The shawl she wore spilled off her shoulders and a shiver ran through her despite the wool fabric of her dress.
She tossed another log into the fireplace and contemplated lighting the oil lamp sitting on the writing desk by the door. Deciding that the evening was early enough to be worthwhile, she took a taper from the holder on the mantle and stuck it in the fire. With that small blaze, she lit the desk lamp and adjusted the flame. The wick light sent curls of black smoke into the room. She opened the door and summoned the maid Daisy.
"You didn't trim the wick like I told you to do, did you?"
Daisy curtsied and hung her head.
"No Miss. I'm sorry. What with Cook gone to visit to her dying sister and the sl-"
"I understand you have had more responsibilities now that the slaves have all run off, but am I supposed to sit in the dark?"
Another curtsy. Daisy looked at the lamp, sputtering but giving off a strong light.
"No Miss. Do you want me to get another lamp? I think the one in the pantry is fine."
"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know what I want!" Julianne's fingers twisted a ring on her finger. "Where is he? Why isn't he here?" She collapsed upon the chaise and sobbed into her hands. Daisy shifted from foot to foot not knowing if she should leave and get the lamp or comfort her mistress. She decided to soothe Julianne and knelt before the distraught woman.
"I'm sure it's just the weather Miss. It's pure buckets comin' down out there. Even deaf Ole Blue here can hear the lightnin' and thunder in his sleep it's that loud. Maybe..."
Julianne whipped her head up.
"Don't say it. Don't you ever say it. Beau will come. He survived the War of Northern Aggression, and he won't let a little dampness stop him from coming to me."
Brilliant light lit up the room, leaving sparkling dots in their eyes. A crack of thunder blasted their ears. Blue moaned in his sleep and twitched. The two women clung to each other for a moment. Daisy jerked her hands back and rose from her mistress. She went to the rain pelted window and pulled the curtains closed before lifting her head.
"Miss." She stammered, "I'm not sure Master Beau will be coming tonight. You know my old Gran has the sight, don't you? I mean she can See things."
Julianne's eyes narrowed as she stood and towered over the frightened maid.
"And just what does this have to do with my fiancée riding to court me?"
"Well, it's just that... I heard... I think..."
"You heard what?" Julianne grabbed Daisy's apron front and shook her. "Tell me. Speak or so help me, I'll...."
"My Gran could use mirrors and See the future and she said your fiancée wasn't coming here to woo you, he went courtin' someone else, the rings he promised you, he's gonna give to another." Daisy drew in a breath, waiting for what the other woman would do.
Julianne stiffened and turned slowly to the window, her back to the maid.
"So, your grandmother has the gift of clairvoyance, does she?"
"Clar...var...?"
Julianne huffed.
"Clairvoyance. The Gift of Seeing Beyond. You say your grandmother can peer beyond the veil."
"I don't know 'bout a veil Miss. But my Gran can See things that will happen. She taught me how."
"How?"
"With a mirror Miss. And it has to be dark too."
"Like tonight."
Daisy gulped.
"Yes Miss, dark like tonight."
Julianne whipped around; her hands planted on her hips. She scowled and bobbed her head.
"What are you waiting for girl? Go fetch me a mirror. I dare say this night will be dark enough for my purposes if what you say is true."
Daisy ran from the room, knocking the chair under which Blue snored. He snorted and looked blearily around the room.
"Go back to sleep Blue. You're not much good for anything else anymore." Julianne paced the room, flinging open the curtains again. Torrents of water beat against the glass and in the distance the rumble of thunder dwindled as the storm faded down the mountain valley.
Daisy paused at the doorway and waited as Julianne walked from window to fireplace and back to window. The maid wrung her hands around the gilded frame of the handheld mirror she carried.
"Miss. I got the mirror you wanted."
Julianne spun around and grabbed Daisy's hand.
"Show me. Show me how to look into the future."
"I forgot to tell you Miss. It ain't always the future. Sometimes it shows what's happening now. I'm sorry Miss."
"As long as it tells me about Beau, I don't care." She sat on the chaise and patted the space next to her. "Sit here and get on with it. I don't want to wait all night."
"A few things we need before we start." Daisy said as she shut the door and clicked home the lock. "We can't have any body walking in on us. "It's gotta be candlelight too, not oil lamp. And the curtains have to be closed." She closed the curtains and lit some odd smelling candles before blowing out the lamp.
Conditions met, Daisy perched next to Julianne and pulled the shawl over both their heads. "Heads gotta be covered too. Close your eyes and-"
"Close my eyes? I won't be able to see the mirror!"
"That comes later Miss. Right now, we gotta go inside our own selves. Least, that's what Gran says."
Both women closed their eyes, thunder rumbling through their heads, fading away into the distance. Julianne followed Daisy's breathing as it grew slower and deeper. When the two women were synchronized, Daisy placed Julianne's hand on the mirror’s surface and chanted;
"Feel the glass, feel your hands on the glass, feel your thoughts go through your fingers into the glass. Feel the glass, feel your hands on the glass, feel your thoughts go through your hands into the glass" Daisy felt Julianne's breaths grow deeper and her body begin to sway as she followed the chant. "Good, good Miss. Now think about what you want to see and then open your eyes."
Julianne squeezed her eyes tighter, concentrating her will into her hands. A tiny tremor rippled beneath them. She tried to pull her hands away, her fear overpowering her desire to see what the mirror would tell her, but Daisy held her in a firm grasp.
"I...I...I don't think..." Julianne tried harder to unwrap her fingers from the mirror.
"You have to hold it close, Gran told me. Or you won't See anything."
The tremors increased until it felt like her fingers melted into the glass. Julianne opened her eyes and stared into the mirror. She dropped it into her lap and gasped.
"Who is that? It isn't me!" Julianne leaned in closer to better see the image staring back at her. "I just saw this face! A few minutes ago, in the window. How... what...? She spun around on the chaise, looking for what caused the reflection of the aged woman in the mirror. No one but Daisy and herself was in the room. The lips of the crone moved. Julianne tilted her head to listen better.
"I am you. You, many years from now." Came a rasping, rough voice. "I know everything about your life and what will happen to you in the future. Ask what you will."
Her lips worked but no words escaped from Julianne's mouth, only a breathless groan. Finally, Julianne could control her voice and with a trembling tone asked her question.
"Where is my fiancé? Where is Beau?"
The face turned away. It shrank to a pinpoint in the mist. Julianne frantically slapped the glass.
"No! Don't disappear! Come back!" She pleaded and thrust the mirror at Daisy. "Tell her to come back!" Daisy nodded at the mirror.
Instead of the vision of an old woman, the form of a man on horseback and the clip clop of horse’s hooves on a rocky path materialized in the mirror. Julianne leaned closer into the mirror until she recognized the square chin and black hair under the dripping wide brimmed hat. A flash of lightening lit the eyes and their cobalt blue sparkled in the flare. In the distance, Julianne almost felt the faint rumble of thunder as the rider jerked the reins of his horse, almost unseating himself.
"That's Beau! He's on his way here!" Julianne grinned at Daisy. "You told me he wasn't going to come! Oh, I hope he doesn't catch his death out there in this downpour." She ran to the window and rubbed the condensation from the glass again to peer into the dark street.
Daisy picked up the mirror from where it had fallen when Julianne jumped up.
"Wait Miss. I don't think you saw the whole picture. Look again. Mister Beau ain't what you think he is."
Julianne tossed her head at what Daisy said but reached for the mirror.
"Oh, all right Daisy. Give it to me."
Julianne gazed into the mirror again, cocking her head and shaking it side to side.
"I'm doing this only because you insist Daisy. He's coming here, even in this rain. He loves me."
Daisy nodded to the clearing image and watched as her mistress folded onto the sofa. Julianne gripped her shawl with white knuckles as the story unfolded in the mirror.
Beau reined in his mount, pulling it back from the crevasse formed by a flood of run-off rain, and glanced warily at the dark clouds above him. Water streamed down the brim of his hat and over the duster coat he wore.
"Whoa Traveler, don't go wild on me now Boy. We're almost there, just beyond that curve." He kicked the horse into a trot. Traveler, remembering the warm dry stable and warm mash that would be waiting, stretched his legs and within a few minutes Beau dismounted in the yard of a small cabin surrounded by towering Tulip and Hemlock trees.
The door flung open and silhouetted in the door frame stood the shape of a young woman. Beau strode to her and picked her up in his arms. Twirling her around, he kissed her hard and reluctantly put her down.
"I have to stable Traveler my love. Then I'll be back to take care of you." He chucked her under her chin and smiled. The girl gave him a sultry eyed pout and went back into the cabin.
The mirror slipped from Julianne's fingers and fell to the carpeted floor.
"Who is that Jezebel? He called her 'my love'. This can't be! We're engaged." Julianne pounded her fists against her legs. "I don't believe it."
Daisy picked up the dropped shawl and wrapped it around her mistress's shoulders.
"Did you recognize the cabin? Could you find it?"
Julianne shook her head.
"Find the cabin? Why would I do that?" Her eyes grew flinty. "Maybe I should find him and throw this, this engagement ring at him. The dad-blasted cad, bounder, weasel." She tore the ring off her finger and glared at it before putting it in her pocket.
"Yes Miss. Did you recognize the trail? I thought I saw the fork to Springfield town right before the cabin. Should I get Jethro to saddle your mare?"
Julianne dashed the tears from her eyes and, through clenched teeth, told Daisy to, yes, get Dolly saddled. After Daisy left, she circled the room. The mirror lay on the floor still. She picked it up and contemplated it. The old crone was gone, leaving only Julianne and the wall behind her reflected in its glass.
A glint off metal caught her eye. She spun around. There, above the fireplace mantle, hanging on its pegs, was her father's Winchester rifle. A smile spread across her face, and she opened the desk's drawers to find the bullets her father kept handy.
Daisy came back to tell her the horse was ready, and the weather cleared enough for the moon to shine through.
"Did you put the rifle holster with the saddle?" Julianne asked.
"I thought you might want it."
Julianne squinted at the maid.
"Why did you do that?"
"You're going out at night Miss. No tellin' who or what might be roaming the trails this time of night."
"Yes, I suppose you're right. I don't know when I will be back. You don't have to wait up for me."
"Oh, I'll do it anyway Miss. Good luck." She picked the mirror up and stood it on the mantle. "I'll take fine care of this."
Julianne mounted the mare and tucked her shawl into her belt. The rain may have stopped but the wind gusted wild in the trees, sending wisps of clouds scudding across the full moon. She reined Dolly to face the road and kicked her into a canter. The horse's shod hooves muffled in the muddy streets as she rode out of town.
Wind cooled Julianne's anger reddened, heated face. She wiped at her eyes, but it wasn't rain causing the blurriness in her sight. Lights from the lamps in the windows of her neighbors gave way to a darkness that matched the emotions raging in her. Dolly slowed when her hooves struck rocks dislodged by the torrents of water spilled onto the trail.
"Oh no you don't." Julianne spurred the mare into a gallop that the horse fought. "Faster Dolly. Faster. D--- him." She called as they rode deeper into the mountains.
Julianne felt the horse's leg drop into the crevasse too late to pull her up. Dolly screamed a shrill neigh as her front legs splayed and she pitched forward into the muddy trail. A snap like a stepped-on twig and another squeal from Dolly and she was down, her left foreleg broken and bloody. She struggled to stand, neighing her pain to the night.
Dazed from the fall and blinded by the wind whipped branches slapping her face, Julianne scrabbled to stand. Her leg slipped and she fell against the thrashing mare. Dolly's cries grew as her writhing kicked up mud and stones until both Julianne and Dolly were mired with black grime and blood.
"Dolly! Oh Dolly! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I've killed you." Julianne knelt by Dolly's head and lifted it into her lap. The mare's struggling slowed, and her neighs of panic dissolved into grunts of pain and fear. Her soft brown eyes sought her mistress's for an answer to her agony. Julianne had no answer except for one. She bent forward and kissed Dolly before rising and going to the saddle. The Winchester rifle lay on the road, undamaged from its fall.
Julianne picked the rifle up and, with fumbling fingers, cocked the rifle. A moan escaped her and for a moment tears blinded her again. Her hand dashed the tears and she moved to Dolly's head. She placed the barrel between the horse's eyes, it wavered until Julianne took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, my love." She cried and pulled the trigger.
***
Beau jerked his hands away from Sally's breasts. The bedcovers slid off his back and onto the floor.
"Did you harken' to that?"
"Did I harken to what?" She murmured as she nibbled his ear. "I didn't hear anythin’. Kiss me."
"There was definitely some..." Beau leaned closer to Sally. "I swear.... Mmmm, You're so delicious...."
"I'm cold. Warm me."
The door crashed open. Sally screamed. Beau jumped out of bed and reached for his revolver. He never reached it. The blast from a Winchester rifle ripped into his chest. Beau stiffened and clasped his hands against the bloody hole. He looked with open mouthed surprise from the mortal wound to the harridan filling the doorway. His mouth moved as if to ask a question and then he tipped forward to fall among the blankets on the floor. Blood pumped from the wound on to the fabric for a few moments and then went still.
Julianne cocked the rifle. Sally screamed and scrabbled like a crab against the headboard.
"Don't shoot me! Please!" She held out her hands to ward off the barrel of the gun that swung around to her.
"Didn't you know we get rid of trash around here?" Julianne snarled and pulled the trigger again.
The rifle bumped against the wooden floor as Julianne slumped onto the stool. A slow moan grew into a shriek. She stood and tore at her hair, her face, her neck before falling next to Beau, hugging the bloody body to her chest.
"No! You're not dead! You can't be! You were going to bring me back a wedding ring!" Her body dissolved over Beau's, racked with sobs tearing through her throat. After an eternity, the sobs turned into hiccups. Julianne pushed herself from the floor and stared at the pale, bloodless lips of her fiancé.
A thought came to her, and she searched his pockets. In the second one she found it. Her fingers convulsed as she drew out the silver band and placed it on her ring finger.
"This is mine. Not hers. Mine. Forever." A strange brightness shone in her eyes as she unwrapped her now bloody shawl from her shoulders and draped it over his face. An unhinged giggle exploded from her. "Mine forever.”
Another cackle erupted and she twirled in the bloody puddle, waving her hands in a free style ballet. She danced through the door and into the moon's light, her deranged cackle echoing in the vale.
***
Daisy lifted the mirror from her lap and waited for the vision to clear from the cabin to the room she sat in. The old woman's face emerged from the mist and smiled at her.
"I told you this was the better way girl. Didn't I tell you?"
"You sure did Gran. To think I was gonna tell what he done to me." Daisy placed her hand over her stomach and frowned. "He got what he deserved."
"No one would ever believe you Granddaughter. No one ever believes the woman."
"The Silver"
Tom Dier, Tennessee
Tom Dier, Tennessee
The events of that afternoon are as inexplicable today as they were in 1962.
Walking in the back yard, I noticed a stray pigeon land on the roof of my pigeon loft. Making himself at home, he entered the loft directly through the one-way bars. I went inside and found a young bird known as a “Silver”—mostly gray in color with two red bars on its wings. The hungry bird mingled and ate with the other pigeons.
Occasionally a stray pigeon, seeking to be with its own kind, was drawn to my small flock while they were out exercising. Sometimes strays would join my birds when I released them miles from home during training. The question with the Silver was how did he know to land on and enter a strange pigeon loft when the residents of the loft were locked up and not seen?
I caught the bird easily, as he did not show skittishness. Inspecting him for injuries and lice, I read his small aluminum leg-band. A yearling, he had been born in 1962. There were these letters and numbers: SWS 6611.
Bands are slipped over the feet of baby pigeons when they are just a couple of days old. The bird would be rendered useless if its band were removed. There was only one SWS 6611 born in 1962.
A prototypical thoroughbred racing pigeon, he stood out from my birds.
The Silver stayed the night in the loft and a day or two later my dad and I boxed him up with the rest of the birds for a twenty-mile training flight. We surmised that he would regain his homing instinct and go back to his own loft.
When we arrived home, the Silver was waiting for us. He had beaten us, while our birds had not yet arrived.
A couple of days later, the scenario was repeated: We released the birds twenty miles away and the Silver beat everyone home again.
Wanting to, somehow, keep the bird crossed my 14-year-old mind. But my dad knew better.
I had been racing pigeons for a few years and knew this bird was a winner. Claiming ownership by racing another person's bird was unethical and, if discovered, would result in expulsion from our club.
I had a small booklet that listed every racing pigeon club in the Midwest. SWS stood for the Southwest Suburban Racing Pigeon Club. The booklet listed addresses of club secretaries. I wrote to the SWS secretary giving contact information and the circumstances of how I came to be in possession of the Silver.
In the back of my mind, I hoped that the owner might let me keep him.
When I mailed the letter, I knew that it was the right thing to do. I knew the heartache of not knowing the fate of lost pigeons.
A few days passed, and I received a call from Ed Thomalla who was the owner of the bird. He was from Downers Grove, Illinois and worked for Western Electric in Chicago. He was on his night shift lunch break when he called.
Any thoughts of being allowed to keep the bird were dispelled when Mr. Thomalla mentioned that he had paid $200 for the parents of the Silver. The Silver was of the bloodline bred by the famous Frenchman, Paul Sion, who raced pigeons in the late 1800s.
"That Silver is the first bird I have raised from this pair and I'd like to have him back. A friend of mine works up on the North Shore and is going to do me a favor and pick him up at your house. And, in return, you have your dad bring you down here and I will give you a fine pair of birds that I have had for a long time. You'll be able to raise some good birds of your own."
I gave directions to my home address.
We talked for a long time. Mr. Thomalla’s children, who were not interested in pigeons, were grown, and gone. He was getting old. He talked of how he was to retire soon and would be able to spend more time with his pigeons. According to him, it was like anything else: the more time you devote to training the birds, the better they will race. You get out of racing exactly what you put into it.
Mr. Thomalla personally knew the owners of the big-time racing pigeon lofts in the Chicago area. He had raced against them for many years and belonged to several different clubs. I sat in our small dining room and listened as he told of big races from year's past. After a good hour of conversation, we hung up and I told my mom and dad the news.
I remembered that I had some old back issues of the American Racing Pigeon News upstairs in my room. The magazine devoted a great deal of space to race results for clubs whose secretaries had made reports. Ed Thomalla's name was, indeed, listed in a few places.
Later that week, a man drove up in a Volkswagon. He carried a small pigeon carrier. We went out to the loft where I caught the Silver. I silently said good-bye to the beautiful bird as I placed him in the carrier. As I walked with the man out to the car, he handed me a couple of dollars and thanked me.
The very next day the Silver was back! By this time, he was well acquainted with my other birds and roosted in his usual spot.
"Hello, friend," I said.
I made the phone call. Mr. Thomalla was not surprised. He knew his Silver was missing.
He said, "I shouldn't have let him out to fly with the other birds, but I was trying to get him ready for a race. I probably won't be able to fly him until next year."
A pigeon's homing instinct is a strange thing. The Silver thought my loft was his home. So, to keep him from flying to my loft again, he would have to remain cooped up in Mr. Thomalla's loft. He would not be allowed outdoors at all, except in a fly pen. After a long period of time, it was hoped he would lose the homing instinct that drew him to my location.
Once again, the man with the Volkswagon came to the house and left with the Silver, who never again returned.
Mr. Thomalla called from time to time. His break time was around 7PM. We would talk for long periods—always about pigeons. He seemed lonely. Perhaps he missed his children? He asked me how my birds were doing in the club races and gave advice on how to train and properly feed my pigeons. One trick was to fly one bird out of a mated pair just when the pair was beginning to mate. Separation likely would cause the racing bird to want to get home faster.
The day finally arrived when my dad had the time to take me to visit with Mr. Thomalla. I was anxious the whole hour it took to drive down to Downers Grove.
We found a neighborhood where all the houses were small and looked alike. Mr. Thomalla's house was well kept. After we introduced ourselves, we were taken to the back yard where a tidy pigeon loft with a nice fly pen was attached to the garage.
Through the eyes of a 14-year-old, Ed Thomalla seemed ancient. Looking back, he probably was in his late fifties. I remember that he wore a short-sleeved shirt and had pointy elbows. He smelled like Dial soap. My dad was content to remain silent. A wide grin spread across my face when I saw the Silver. I may have been a bit prejudiced, but he was the best-looking bird in the loft.
We passed the next couple of hours talking pigeons. I was anxious as to whether Mr. Thomalla would remember his promise about giving me a pair of birds. (My dad made sure the pigeon carrier DID NOT leave our car until we had received an offer from Mr. Thomalla to take home some birds.)
Finally, Mr. Thomalla said, "I have two pairs of birds I want to give you."
I was thrilled. As he placed the birds into our carrier Mr. Thomalla told us their backgrounds and accomplishments. I was proud when he remarked on how well-made our pigeon carrier was. My dad had made it using canvas and dowel rods. Dad was a craftsman.
We said good-bye.
I never saw Mr. Thomalla or the Silver again. It was not long until the phone calls got fewer. Eventually they stopped. I still raced my birds but, as often happens, I became interested in other things and did not spend as much time with them as I should have. The military draft was fast approaching.
Thoughts of how I could have won races, had I been able to keep the Silver, remain.
A strong realization finally arrived after many years: Any accomplishment would have belonged to the Silver. I would have been the beneficiary of pure luck. Winning would have filled my young head.
Success built on another person's loss can be short lived.
What that long-ago time taught me is that the real heroes of the story are the Silver, who showed me what real potential was, and the nice man who, along with my dad, did not mind spending a little bit of time with me, hoping that I could be successful in my own right.
Walking in the back yard, I noticed a stray pigeon land on the roof of my pigeon loft. Making himself at home, he entered the loft directly through the one-way bars. I went inside and found a young bird known as a “Silver”—mostly gray in color with two red bars on its wings. The hungry bird mingled and ate with the other pigeons.
Occasionally a stray pigeon, seeking to be with its own kind, was drawn to my small flock while they were out exercising. Sometimes strays would join my birds when I released them miles from home during training. The question with the Silver was how did he know to land on and enter a strange pigeon loft when the residents of the loft were locked up and not seen?
I caught the bird easily, as he did not show skittishness. Inspecting him for injuries and lice, I read his small aluminum leg-band. A yearling, he had been born in 1962. There were these letters and numbers: SWS 6611.
Bands are slipped over the feet of baby pigeons when they are just a couple of days old. The bird would be rendered useless if its band were removed. There was only one SWS 6611 born in 1962.
A prototypical thoroughbred racing pigeon, he stood out from my birds.
The Silver stayed the night in the loft and a day or two later my dad and I boxed him up with the rest of the birds for a twenty-mile training flight. We surmised that he would regain his homing instinct and go back to his own loft.
When we arrived home, the Silver was waiting for us. He had beaten us, while our birds had not yet arrived.
A couple of days later, the scenario was repeated: We released the birds twenty miles away and the Silver beat everyone home again.
Wanting to, somehow, keep the bird crossed my 14-year-old mind. But my dad knew better.
I had been racing pigeons for a few years and knew this bird was a winner. Claiming ownership by racing another person's bird was unethical and, if discovered, would result in expulsion from our club.
I had a small booklet that listed every racing pigeon club in the Midwest. SWS stood for the Southwest Suburban Racing Pigeon Club. The booklet listed addresses of club secretaries. I wrote to the SWS secretary giving contact information and the circumstances of how I came to be in possession of the Silver.
In the back of my mind, I hoped that the owner might let me keep him.
When I mailed the letter, I knew that it was the right thing to do. I knew the heartache of not knowing the fate of lost pigeons.
A few days passed, and I received a call from Ed Thomalla who was the owner of the bird. He was from Downers Grove, Illinois and worked for Western Electric in Chicago. He was on his night shift lunch break when he called.
Any thoughts of being allowed to keep the bird were dispelled when Mr. Thomalla mentioned that he had paid $200 for the parents of the Silver. The Silver was of the bloodline bred by the famous Frenchman, Paul Sion, who raced pigeons in the late 1800s.
"That Silver is the first bird I have raised from this pair and I'd like to have him back. A friend of mine works up on the North Shore and is going to do me a favor and pick him up at your house. And, in return, you have your dad bring you down here and I will give you a fine pair of birds that I have had for a long time. You'll be able to raise some good birds of your own."
I gave directions to my home address.
We talked for a long time. Mr. Thomalla’s children, who were not interested in pigeons, were grown, and gone. He was getting old. He talked of how he was to retire soon and would be able to spend more time with his pigeons. According to him, it was like anything else: the more time you devote to training the birds, the better they will race. You get out of racing exactly what you put into it.
Mr. Thomalla personally knew the owners of the big-time racing pigeon lofts in the Chicago area. He had raced against them for many years and belonged to several different clubs. I sat in our small dining room and listened as he told of big races from year's past. After a good hour of conversation, we hung up and I told my mom and dad the news.
I remembered that I had some old back issues of the American Racing Pigeon News upstairs in my room. The magazine devoted a great deal of space to race results for clubs whose secretaries had made reports. Ed Thomalla's name was, indeed, listed in a few places.
Later that week, a man drove up in a Volkswagon. He carried a small pigeon carrier. We went out to the loft where I caught the Silver. I silently said good-bye to the beautiful bird as I placed him in the carrier. As I walked with the man out to the car, he handed me a couple of dollars and thanked me.
The very next day the Silver was back! By this time, he was well acquainted with my other birds and roosted in his usual spot.
"Hello, friend," I said.
I made the phone call. Mr. Thomalla was not surprised. He knew his Silver was missing.
He said, "I shouldn't have let him out to fly with the other birds, but I was trying to get him ready for a race. I probably won't be able to fly him until next year."
A pigeon's homing instinct is a strange thing. The Silver thought my loft was his home. So, to keep him from flying to my loft again, he would have to remain cooped up in Mr. Thomalla's loft. He would not be allowed outdoors at all, except in a fly pen. After a long period of time, it was hoped he would lose the homing instinct that drew him to my location.
Once again, the man with the Volkswagon came to the house and left with the Silver, who never again returned.
Mr. Thomalla called from time to time. His break time was around 7PM. We would talk for long periods—always about pigeons. He seemed lonely. Perhaps he missed his children? He asked me how my birds were doing in the club races and gave advice on how to train and properly feed my pigeons. One trick was to fly one bird out of a mated pair just when the pair was beginning to mate. Separation likely would cause the racing bird to want to get home faster.
The day finally arrived when my dad had the time to take me to visit with Mr. Thomalla. I was anxious the whole hour it took to drive down to Downers Grove.
We found a neighborhood where all the houses were small and looked alike. Mr. Thomalla's house was well kept. After we introduced ourselves, we were taken to the back yard where a tidy pigeon loft with a nice fly pen was attached to the garage.
Through the eyes of a 14-year-old, Ed Thomalla seemed ancient. Looking back, he probably was in his late fifties. I remember that he wore a short-sleeved shirt and had pointy elbows. He smelled like Dial soap. My dad was content to remain silent. A wide grin spread across my face when I saw the Silver. I may have been a bit prejudiced, but he was the best-looking bird in the loft.
We passed the next couple of hours talking pigeons. I was anxious as to whether Mr. Thomalla would remember his promise about giving me a pair of birds. (My dad made sure the pigeon carrier DID NOT leave our car until we had received an offer from Mr. Thomalla to take home some birds.)
Finally, Mr. Thomalla said, "I have two pairs of birds I want to give you."
I was thrilled. As he placed the birds into our carrier Mr. Thomalla told us their backgrounds and accomplishments. I was proud when he remarked on how well-made our pigeon carrier was. My dad had made it using canvas and dowel rods. Dad was a craftsman.
We said good-bye.
I never saw Mr. Thomalla or the Silver again. It was not long until the phone calls got fewer. Eventually they stopped. I still raced my birds but, as often happens, I became interested in other things and did not spend as much time with them as I should have. The military draft was fast approaching.
Thoughts of how I could have won races, had I been able to keep the Silver, remain.
A strong realization finally arrived after many years: Any accomplishment would have belonged to the Silver. I would have been the beneficiary of pure luck. Winning would have filled my young head.
Success built on another person's loss can be short lived.
What that long-ago time taught me is that the real heroes of the story are the Silver, who showed me what real potential was, and the nice man who, along with my dad, did not mind spending a little bit of time with me, hoping that I could be successful in my own right.
Appal(Trad)
"Meadows of Dan, Virginia"
Donna Isaac, Virginia
Donna Isaac, Virginia
Leaf puzzle on the forest floor,
glass shine on a stalk,
a stream of milk, galax,
dotted with raindrops
near Mabry Mill that sluices
and shimmies water into runnels,
streams that turn the wheel
that run the grist
that grind the grain
to make hoe cakes or grits
with greasy beans once strung
on string to hang from beams
underneath where a blue tick
sleeps and snores, dreams
about treeing a ring tail,
beneath a smoke moon
in the summer sky--
dear Lord, why would I
not smile? What should I
fear? The wheels are turning
even as we speak.
glass shine on a stalk,
a stream of milk, galax,
dotted with raindrops
near Mabry Mill that sluices
and shimmies water into runnels,
streams that turn the wheel
that run the grist
that grind the grain
to make hoe cakes or grits
with greasy beans once strung
on string to hang from beams
underneath where a blue tick
sleeps and snores, dreams
about treeing a ring tail,
beneath a smoke moon
in the summer sky--
dear Lord, why would I
not smile? What should I
fear? The wheels are turning
even as we speak.
"Shenandoah"
Donna Isaac, Virginia
Donna Isaac, Virginia
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Child of the mountain, bare feet treading soft moss
dusty paths, you listen for your mother's voice calling suppertime across the pinetops, pintos with ham, warm rolls, and the juiciest peach slump of the summer. In the morning, strong coffee in a rosebloom cup, grandmother feeding you wisdom from a mismatched spoon. Out again into the hills for cold creek wading, copperhead awareness among the rocks and rhododendron. Under a blue dome your sister dances beneath a willow, wind moving the green-lit branches. Fetterless and fearless, friends on a tire swing propel out over a brown river, hollers ringing the oxbow, burnished boy rising out of ripples 'round your heart. Long shadows chill sunny girls atop a palisade, bunching rumpled coverlets to take home to pin on a line. Dusk fingers evening frets, fireflies winking, intermittent stars illuminating the trees. |
Avant(Serial)
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"Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection"
a novel by Jim Meirose, New Jersey
Chapter 3: Yes! The First Check-In at Bern
a novel by Jim Meirose, New Jersey
Chapter 3: Yes! The First Check-In at Bern
Yes!
Yes!
Yes yes yes!
Having thusly decided in the affirmative to apply for acceptance to Le Club de la Resurrection, Jamed Davis and Wendy Davis, barely post-adolescent but already quite well-to-do bored disillusioned and quite lost fourth generation morticians, of ages thirty and twenty-eight respectively, arrived safely in Bern, Switzerland, to report as per the instructions they received after applying online. Bern is the capital of Switzerland, you may know. Therefore, it houses the parliament building. This is quite logical. The building looks stale filthy and aged from the outside but is extraordinarily beautiful from the inside. It is built upon three themes: the inception at Rütli, which equates to a birth; the key principles of the Confederation and the cultural, historical, economical, and political diversity of Switzerland; the key areas that mature slowly over many years as occurs in your typical snot-nosed and crabby for no good reason adolescence that everything including countries must go through. You can book a guided tour inside. You cannot book a guided tour outside. Outside only, at the square, you can see the play of water with twenty-six sprinkles standing for twenty-six different cantons. Inside you could search for all eternity, but you will never see, at any square, the play of water with twenty-six sprinkles standing for twenty-six different cantons. Last but not least, go to the terrace of the building. There is a cable car named Marzili bahn, the shortest in Switzerland with a travel height of thirty-one meters, which will take you down to the Marzili district. You get a shiny view of the green cupola right outside the station. Anywhere else but on the terrace of the building, you will never find a cable car named Marzili bahn, the shortest in Switzerland with a travel height of thirty-one meters, which will take you down to the Marzili district. And, you can wait for all eternity, but you will never get a shiny view of the green cupola right outside the station; so, yes, hey, but—at any rate Bern is the city where the Davis’ came to for the first round of approval for acceptance into Le Club de la Resurrection. After settling into their pre-provided and paid for hotel room, and taking a quick recharge of a short nap and a shower, Jamed and Wendy stepped out onto the softly bustling sidewalk before the monstrously expensive five-star Hotel Bellevue Palace Bern, squatting large, grand, and ancient on the Kochergrasse. The sun beamed down around them as they stepped to the curb.
Lord God, I can scarcely believe we are here! exclaimed Wendy. The ground we are standing on, is, actually a whole different country! I’ve never been to another country. It’s amazing, I’m so excited, I don’t know if I’m going to live through this trip! I swear, it’s like an old storybook out here. Look at these buildings! Look at that clock tower! Everything is so old, but somehow spotless as if it were built yesterday!
That’s how it is when you’re in Europe, said Jamed. Everything’s a lot older than what we’re used to in the states.
It is very, very odd.
Oh, yeah. And in Switzerland especially. It’s been neutral for a long time, forever almost. Never bombed into ruins, invaded, dealt destruction of any kind for all that time. Something got built here that long ago, it stayed. It seems bizarre, but you get used to it.
How do you know?
I was in Europe in the Army, remember? When I first got here then, I thought lots of it looked old as hell too, over in Germany where I was at. But here, because it’s neutral, it’s even more extreme. Hey look, the map says we got to cross over. After this train goes by.
A totally quiet series of electrical streetcars glided by, tiny gentle golden sparks flashing in the darkness underneath where the connections to drive the cars forward were maintained. Its side slid along before Jamed and Wendy in a blur of gentle pastel colors, that though it was gone in just a few moments, it acted as a movie screen playing the sum of what had brought them to this point over the last few months and years, as; Davis’ funeral home, passed down to Jamed, the fifth generation to carry on the business. Are there other things in the world to do? To be? To become? No, no, no—so Jamed had been told since a boy. This business will be yours, little Jamed. This business, this fine well-regarded family name, the money banked everywhere, the homes in the country, the mountains, the shore, the top of the line cars the best of everything sky’s the limit, over a hundred and fifty years of Davises have built this empire to this point, it will be yours it must be yours it’s all you want son, think that yes, believe, know this is what you dream of becoming, just like the four generations before us, I dreamed of taking over when I was a boy, and I got my dream, it was handed to me, what’s wrong with having a dream handed to you programmed in that there is not a chance in hell you will not achieve, and you won’t even have to try. Dead people? There are always dead people. There is always a boomtime. There is always demand and there is always supply. You know how when we go up the Parkway to visit Aunt Inez every summer? You know that stretch where there’s just cemeteries all around as far as you can see to the sides, in the front, and behind? That’s money, Jamed. Those are not gravestones, no—those are all satisfied customers. And their sons and daughters and then their sons and daughters ad infinitum will use your services, because you are established. Because you are familiar. Because you are comfortable as old clothes are comfortable; as old cars are comfortable; as old houses and old money and old people and old cemeteries are comfortable, yes—as though you were their very Mother and Father and Rabbi Minister Priest, or even God--
Jamed! Come on! We can cross now. They’ve passed by—what, are you asleep or what? I know the flight was long, maybe we should do this tomorrow.
No, no—I’m sorry. I was just daydreaming. Come. Let’s go. We cross over and we go down this street a few blocks and we’ll come to number one. That’s where they’re expecting us. They said come see them as soon as we’re settled. We better follow the rules.
But isn’t it late? Won’t their office be closed? It’s like—six thirty, I think—damn, I can’t convert the time. Is it six thirty? If it is, there’s probably nobody there.
I don’t know. I just know they told me that they are there all day and all night and that we should do nothing else after we check in the hotel before we go and see them and sign some paperwork. I think it’s best to push through a bit and get this over with. Here, this is the way. Go that way. It’s just a few blocks.
Just a few blocks? Huh. I am tired as a dog from flying and taking the train and then the taxi and all that for what seems like weeks. I don’t know if I can walk a few blocks.
Sure you can. Hey, listen—they haven’t approved us yet. We don’t want to screw anything up. You can do it.
I hope so.
Okay, good! Come on, let’s step out. You can do it do it with me. Race!
Okay—yes!
The slate sidewalk flowed all sped up flashing superfast smooth underfoot poundyfeet pounding all like a caterpillar track running fast pulling suction to suck out their growing leg knee thigh fatigue to keep them going; they passed a UPS truck that could have been back home. I hope so, she says, thought Jamed, moving fast—I hope so is what she says about everything when she really just wants to give up. I told her again and again, You can do it you can do it—she stood white as a sheet in the embalming room with me when we started her on her first cavity embalming. She said why do I have to do this, why can’t you do it just this one time, I’ll do it next time; and her face rippled bloodless, whiter than a sheet, I know this wasn’t her first time because she did finish embalming school, has the diploma to prove it, so I did not understand—push the trocar, in there, right there—I hope I can do it but I don’t know—you have to do more than hope you can do it you just have to let go and fucking do it—I know, I’m sorry, I am not yelling at you—the sidewalk is fast must be careful don’t trip—there we have gone one whole block now—how many blocks is it—there, right there, just push it through the skin—it won’t go in—push harder yes, it is razor sharp—it’s about ten blocks—I hope I can make it—push and you can, harder, there, that’s right, jab, yes—the intention remember is to release any built up gas and fluids in the organs—huh, what? What did you expect this job would smell like, Wendy—it’s in how deep now—keep walking let’s walk faster—wasn’t the embalming room in that old school up Bellevue just reeking of rotten foul sweet and sour and yeast superstrong—this guy must be all empty inside I can’t feel anything—push the trocar another few inches to clear the cavity wall, you’ll hit the hot mishmash in the cold soup and all that know that joke? Not funny, not no, I can’t look at his face please cover his face—wait, wait, no, I’m too busy, I need to connect the chemical lines, hold it steady right there, now; okay, Wendy—with your toe under there push the pedal start the pump—okay now I pushed it the pumps running can you please cover his face—I got nothing to cover it with plus I got to watch make sure the pump’s set right—don’t want a rupture—God, just don’t look—I don’t know if I can do this job, Jamed—you went to school you did this a million times you seen as many dead faces you can and you will do this job, Wendy—I hope I can, but—what’s that dripping leaking there what’s that spattering down on my shoes—don’t let go the trocar, that’s why—oh God, give it here. Let me do it, let me. You can do it next time.
I hope so.
Hey, wait!
Pounding slower slowing them both, He says wait, slow, wait--
What’s the matter?
We’re almost there—let me look, let me, here; let’s move over get out of the way.
A fat yellow van labeled BETON COUPE was unloading before them. As they stepped back in a darkly grim oversurrounding thickly rough built arched doorway, Jamed pulled a balled up torn and dirty piece of paper from his pocket, lifted it, and peered. As he strained to see the faded scribble he’d made months ago when they’d phoned him the details, Wendy took advantage of the pause to idly count the number of bicycles on the block-long rack across the street. Giant construction cranes all blue and yellow thrust up above the city in the greater distance. The cranes and the bikes; some of the cranes were the same colors as the bikes and vice versa, versa vice, yes, yes, the rising fatigue rendered everything mysterious and seeming to be false somehow a lie--
Number one, shouted Jamed. We got to watch for it. Come on. Let’s keep moving. Where are the numbers? Slow now, there—there! The numbers don’t really make sense we just got to watch slow slow pay attention--
Look—it says that place over there is a casino. Is that for betting? They got casinos in Switzerland? Huh, do they?
An extraordinarily ear-splitting little car sped by sounding like a thousand tearing ripping heavy lengths of brittle cloth fading revealing Jamed saying over his spouse, There it is, Wendy. There it is, right there!
What? Where?
Over there, by that big Casino sign—come on, it’s clear, let’s cross. It’s in that building. There—but hold it, wait. Something’s wrong.
What?
That’s the address, but it says Dental Office. What the—yeah, it says Dr. Eugene Patriciosilva. My God, what a name, eh? But this has to be wrong. This is a dentist. We want the Resurrection Club—number one we want. This can’t be. I swear to God.
But it is number one. It says—see, Jamed, I knew it was wrong to apply for this. We have been taken. Like I thought we’d be.
No. It is not wrong. And how are we taken? We’ve spent not a penny. They paid our way and hotel and food and all. At the very least, we get to spend a few days in Switzerland for free. No way, no way. There’s just some mix-up. We’re going in to ask. Wait here let’s try.
Jamed pushed the brilliantly polished aluminum doorframe, and the angle of sun glinted super bright across both their faces as they entered, stepping into a perfectly spotless odorless super-sterile dazzlingly lit waiting room; all the more unreal because there were no light fixtures visible in the ceiling, walls or anyplace at all. The extremely unnatural oversanitary smelling perfection-blast slowed them just short of gagging up, but they did not, it must be just the jetlagged fatigued weak and dizzy state they had pushed through to obey the strict orders to check in immediately with this outfit they wished to join, only to find there was no such place and ending up facing some fresh rouged dental receptionist with perfect hair dressed in robin’s egg blue scrubs who blurted at them sweetly, bright, and so, so, purely, Welcome to Doctor Eugene’s office! Do you have an appointment? Name, please. Please spell it. Go ahead. I’m ready.
Jamed’s fatigue and nervousness at Wendy’s suggestion about their possibly having been given a ride by some group of blackhearted supertricky pranksters pulled a rapid string of anger from his mouth that said, No! I and my wife have traveled for twelve or more hours to get here. I have a sheet of paper that says we should report to this address, but it is wrong! This is a dentist’s office—you are not who we are here to see! Where is the office of the group we applied to join that paid our way here got us a hotel and told us we needed to report here at once I am not in the mood to be nice I am much too tired to be nice, why is this a dentist’s office and not the headquarters of the Resurrection Club? Look here, look! Here are the papers we were sent!
Let me see that, sir, she said, unperturbed. Jamed and Wendy’s breath came hard shallow fast and the invisible tendrils of their microbe-infested humid hot breath drew a fine faint but perfectly legible signature twining around itself, and the round hairy perfectly parted shiny black hairy headtop of the receptionist tilted at Jamed as she leaned down reading the papers, and it seemed to be taking much too long yes much too long and he began to believe the headtop had no attached face or receptionist, it was an it, actually, less than an it, really; a frozen statue of superdriedout meat yah hey ho I it reads on and on this is my eternal destiny to wait planted here I am not Jamed I am a plant I’ve been rooted here all along the life I thought I’ve lived through all over has just been a hallucination, I am a plant not even potted less than potted rooted in the earth can never move can’t take it can’t live like this must sleep go comatose cease being aware and—the room’s much too clean oh yes too too clean so clean so clean is a powerful sleep-inducing druggy medicine of a sort but wholly odorless and invisible but—it sank into her drain of a face blooming up from the hairy headtop and brought Jamed slightly up from his sleep drift, by saying brightly all wide-eyed, Jamed and Wendy Davis? Is that you? We have you here—yes. Good, you are right on time. That is a tremendous plus, because most are not.
Not what? Not late? Hey if we are at the right place why is this a dental office?
You are in the right place, she said, picking up the phone—just breath slowly and deeply with rhythm while I call the Great Founder.
The Great Founder? What is the doctor’s name? Did you say The Great Founder? Did the sign really say dentist, God damn it, tell The Great Founder it was a hell of a long flight, I think we both feel three inches shorter and several score of fifty-pound lumpy rock-hard potato sacks lighter and we think The Great Founder needs to hear that. What does the soul weigh? Are we dead? Please answer us! and Jamed rattled on in this vein, until the receptionist took advantage of his needing to take a breath to survive, to raise her hand and speak politely.
Yes, sir, this is a dental office. We need to bring in income to continue, just like any other organization. But, just know that you are in the right place. You have indeed reported to The Resurrection Club, just breathe slowly and deeply with the rhythm of the relaxing cool clean air surrounding you, and Dr. Eugene will be right in. The phone is ringing, it takes a while for them to pick up, it gets pretty busy back there. Just hang on and breathe evenly of the wonderfully relaxing air, as I said. It is so wonderful, it is much like a drug in some ways. I absolutely love breathing it every day. Yes, I do. So calm and clean. Yes clean—hey what tell us where is your child where is your little child Janie, in your biographical questionnaire you said you have a girl named Janie. We want to see Janie. Did you bring Janie? Janie is such a name, you know—you know you know you know yes you—hey--
No! Wait! Exclaimed Jamed with a sharp cut of the edge of his hand. No, wait never mind the Godd---ed air and all that noise, never mind Janie, Janie is all safe and sound with Granny, thanks. But never mind that anyway.
—what, yes, there’s a question where’d it go oh there it is grab it ask it--
Lady, here’s the thing. Is this, is this really, the Resurrection Club? I mean you say it is, but how do we know? We don’t know you.
Jamed, said Wendy, elbow-jabbing. What is the matter, why--
No no no, I need to ask this lady. Is this the right place to be to gain acceptance to the Resurrection Club? When are you going to take us in the back as that must be where the Resurrection Club stays together the more rabidly hypnotized members take pictures there which they bring home and post up and hear interested people say Lord, what was it like? Was that where it all originally got thought up and built exclusively on planet earth? Is that where the Resurrection miracle actually got thought up and started? And all at once, it was a different place and time, and Wendy and Jamed opened their eyes seeing that an entire waiting room of people was looking up toward the stairhead they were starting down from, their mouths puffed out with laughing gas and Novocain that told them they had just seen the dentist, and the waiting room of people were cheering whistling raving and shouting and clapping their hands and stomping their feet, making Jamed and Wendy feel like plenty of would-be rock stars dare to feel; they had dared Jamed’s childhood small town on the job trained dentist, Doctor Forney, whose carefully placed fillings always fell out in three days, to wake from the dead and do these last few molars. They leaned back and the Doctor said, Open up—wide—wide—wider. Yes, that way. The long thin silver glinting sharp pointed probe ran along guided by his trembling liverspotted hand under the lip of their gums scraping their teeth quite painfully, but, after all, who could complain? Pain, and dentists, go together. Going there, you got to know what you’re stepping into unless you’re gone lame-brained. The dentist pulled the probe over cracking the thick plaque deposits apart. The cracking roared in their thin but hard headbones. Hoover Dam would be bursting to provide a silly set of vestments with which to go to church or chapel in before there would ever be healing sounds so painful, but so necessary, coming ever again through their headbones. Three days later, boomed Father. Three days later, it never fails. All his fillings fall out in your mushbowl, why the hell did you go to that quack? He went to dental school it says, the big diploma on the wall behind his big bald self, seated at his desk, calculating the best angles to cheat on his quarterly taxes. He’s both a crook and a quack; a cruack. No accountant for him; it’s cheaper to do it all yourself. Much easier to do illegal number pumping in private. Get a tiny tub of plumber’s putty. Plumber’s putty can fill any cavity from the size of your typical planet on down. There are really countless planets swarming ‘round the sun, she said. Her red mop of black rooted thick wavy hair covered the brain that had centuries ago thought together the wisest truth of all. There are planets smaller than the human eye can see. There are planets smaller than the human eye can see upon which surge blue oceans washing the shores of green continents holding scores upon trillion more scores and more of tiny to medium to huge living organisms to pulsating things too large for a million and one gas giants greater than ten Jupiters to provide the universe’s widest deepest seas to sink gone into, whew; and; there seems to be a line of inflammation along the gums of both applicants, the hygienist told the tall masked doctor gravely. He sat on a stool after stretching and snapping on tight colorless rubber gloves the color of cheaply made imported unlubricated chinese condoms. Well, let me see. Here it is. Open—yes. Back bottom molars yes? Is that where you saw inflammation? Yes, she said. Two faces and masks close in blocking the painting on the ceiling of cloud-peppered miraculously blue sky much too pure too clean and perfect to survive in nature, even in places with absolutely no gusts whipping up ever regardless of this or that sequentially named curlicue rainy-day hurricane season blowstorm. No, said the dentist. There is no rot there. They have not got maggots in their mouthholes, no they don’t. Advise them both to floss hard each day in that spot. They have been neglecting the spot. They have been paying attention to too many seemingly more important things than the health of that row of molars. I? Why am I a dentist? Okay. My Father was a dentist as was his Father and Mother and more all the way back over again and over again, to the Doctor the whole town kept going to because he was the only game in town, okay? Many fillings lay forgotten though paid for when first put in with all the best intentions in the world, in the landfill through all the years piercing through the barrier year, that being the year the dentist died, but the fillings kept on and remained for all posterity, eternally circled by seagulls in the windy trashy blow, and smelling all wrong. So, tell them when they wake they have passed, and they are in Le Club de la Resurrection. Tell them when they wake they have passed and they are in because obviously they are on no drugs they floss three times daily and wash thoroughly after each and every wipe so are worthy of eternal life. I believe I do that they are fine candidates to be taken for a ride until they die for large automatic monthly payments. The amount of these payments is stated below. These will be automatically deducted from the provided bank account no later than the fifteenth of every month. Tell them that doctor Eugene Patriciosilva has given them the go ahead to be added to the rolls of Le Club de la Resurrection. Did Jesus have perfect teeth? Most probably. Did Lazarus raised from the dead have perfect teeth? Most probably. Did the son of the great Shunammite woman have perfect teeth? Very unlikely, but still was allowed to rise from the dead, for reasons incomprehensible. There are no rules, nothing absolute—and make sure the contracts they sign are the latest version that point out in plain English that there are never any guarantees in nature, and past performance is no guarantee of future results. That’s nothing, just the general legal capper you need when dealing with the many common scumbags mixed into the great unwashed public, that you will always catch one or two of in your net, and that you need to eliminate as soon as possible so that the good fruit will not catch on and spread their rot across the whole million-acre cropfield--
Jamed and Wendy remained staring at the receptionist’s swift hands working reams of paperwork paperclipping binders of documents, they waited feigning patience as the polite waiting in line held up by the confusion of someone all stupid and unprepared and angry fighting it out with the pharmacy clerk about what insurance covers and what it doesn’t and about what the stupid store clerk told them yesterday what would be done and to come in and everything would be in order, and it isn’t and wasn’t and the promise is being denied and insisted upon and denied and insisted upon each iteration a notch higher until at last the inevitable demand to see the manager erupts, and all the while the line politely feigns patience yes patience--
All right. Mr. and Mrs. Davis, everything has checked out and been approved by the Great Founder, and we’re all now ganged together to loudly tell you, welcome to the Resurrection Club. It is a decision you will not regret ever and ever and forever and all!
Shake her dry bony hand, but protest. Wait, what? We—what has been checked out and approved? We’ve been standing here waiting to find out what’s what!
Your health has been approved. You have not just been standing here. It has been hours. You have been through a complete battery of tests. You, as are all our candidates for admission, were rendered insensible with powerful hypnotics throughout it all so that you would experience not a glimmer of anxiety or discomfort. A large staff has busily run you through at least a dozen quick sharp procedures. It is nearly midnight--
What? No—Jamed and Wendy snapped up their watches, and almost in unison, snapped all singsongy, Jesus Christ, its true! What the h---! We’ll be d---ed!
D---ed? No. No, no, never will that happen, joked the receptionist—after all, you are now, well, I hate to use the term or make promises, but—it’s quite possible you will in the long run be immortal, if all goes according to plan and the Great Founder achieves his goals.
Yes, but God. This is so surprising.
The receptionist waved up a small thin hand.
Don’t be surprised by anything that happens here. Our technology as developed by the Great Founder and his team, is advanced. But, at any rate, your overall head-to-toe hygiene level is approved. You both care for yourselves. And, most obviously, you care for your teeth daily. People that take care of their teeth daily take care of their whole selves forever. The Great Founder has found this to be a rule. Anyway, here. Here are your binders. They contain your contracts and the full ream of small print which you may review at your leisure. And, of course, you know, the final kicker is; Jerry Garcia the fourth to die will come sit down hungry and eat for free so fast she will get to her sweet sweet end right with you guys, absolutely free.
The Davis’ took the binders and tucked them under their arms smiling and nodding at the receptionist as she began talking again, saying, And finally, here; each of you sign there on your respective dotted lines with these identical ballpoint pens which are brand new and have never been used. There. Yes, yes—by the X.
Okay, sure, thanks, no problem.
Yes, by it—right there. Not over it. Not under it. By it. Not in front of it. Behind it. The line shows you where. Make the X with two strokes. Not like the Roman Numeral II. Not like the equals sign, =. Not like the greater than or the less than signs. Not like the plus sign, +. There are many ways to do it wrong but only one way to do it right. There. Yes, yes—by the X. Oh, wait no, that’s wrong. Here do it again, she said, and she rapidly pulled away the signature sheet and slid the Davis’ another.
What? What was wrong with that one?
Never mind. Just do it again. Go on. There.
Okay—wait. This pen won’t write. You got another?
What? she sniped, ripping it away. What do you mean the pen won’t write? It has to. It just has to. I cannot shuffle shuffle around my ten thousand junk drawers looking for a decent pen, because that will take too long and you will have forgotten my instructions and I shall have to repeat them all over again, so, try it again, Davis’, yes, you Wendy, you, Jamed—try it and try it and try it again until it God-da--- works yes works yes yes until it works! Here!
She thrust it at them sharply and long.
Jesus, lady; you almost jabbed me. Here. Give it here easy.
No. Because you will just find another thing wrong. And, knowing you like I do, because each and every candidate for Le Club de la Resurrection says when I go off like this from you to myself something like, What is the matter, ma’am? you’ll say to me. What—sign what? you’ll say to me next. And so on, as; you gave us nothing to sign, you just kind of—went off! I am not going to care if you’re offended, you’ll yell at me, because I might never see you again in my life again, because between now and the time years from now you need to come here again, the turnover rate for low-paid receptionists is so d---ed high and will get higher that no way will I be here anymore, it’s like a cheap family eating sh-t fast food off some scumbag chain that you go to each week and each week they’re training new waiters why do they even bother they know they’re only going to be in town for a couple of days and the service will never be anything but rock bottom quality, which is no quality. The absence of quality, yes, no; the quality abscess popping video with half a million new views every day I mean I could tell you the name it’s something to see got paper and pen? Got paper and pen, oh, I hope you have paper and pen I do I really truly do indeed! Got paper and pen paper and pen ah—here’s a call for you for you--
Still repeating again and again got paper and pen got paper and pen, she held up a telephone to the Davises. Jamed took it, and clapped his hand over his other ear because the receptionist not two feet from him was pumping out word noise faster and faster and faster.
Hello? said Jamed.
Hello. This is doctor Patriciosilva. I am next in command under the Great Founder. Never mind the receptionist. She is not a receptionist. She is an actor playing a part. Your reaction to her has been observed via closed circuit. I am pleased to tell you that you have passed the test. We welcome you and your spouse Wendy to the first level of Le Club de la Resurrection. You are in. We will begin monthly billing on the fifteenth of this month. Goodbye--
Wait! What—tell me more about the billing. I--
No. The details are in the binders you were given. Don’t worry, we know you are good for the payments. We know a lot about you, you know. Maybe some things you don’t know about.
How can that be? What things?
Later—but for now, know that part of the test is that you must never tell Mrs. Davis what you were told on this call. Do you agree to that?
Why should I? Tell me what that test is for!
No. You have been told. What you do from here on will tell the tale.
What tale? What--
Goodbye.
The click of the phone was as a hammering steam piston driving against Jamed’s ear and causing him to instantly if not faster hand the phone back to the receptionist who looped around loudly larger and broader every time, bellowing; I hope you have paper and pen I do, I really truly do, indeed! Got paper and pen paper and pen ah yes! I really and truly hope you do indeed! Ah, yes, I really and truly and truly and really hope you do!
Davis gripped the edge of the binder from her and leaned under her rampage of a voice , which was following the script exactly, what an actress, where had they found her—each punch of her noise made him stoop to keep clear and lean and get the pencil and sign the correct legal name on the sheet by the X, then the other Davis did the same, and they turned and scooted under the descending thickly lumpy becoming all crazy and insanely sweaty their temperatures were rising and rising and they hammered their way out the door into the hall, and in absolute self-defense they cut her wordstream to its final length by slicing shut the bladelike spotless stainless steel door and finishing off the wide awake part of the day like some intricate massive mass production factory machine cutting thousands and thousands of streams per day; as the Davises walked through the dark to the hotel, they talked together about what had just happened over the last several hours, and each step brought them more and more out of some sort of fading hangoverlike state of shellshock that didn’t fade until they came in their big wide hotel of a bed.
Yes!
Yes yes yes!
Having thusly decided in the affirmative to apply for acceptance to Le Club de la Resurrection, Jamed Davis and Wendy Davis, barely post-adolescent but already quite well-to-do bored disillusioned and quite lost fourth generation morticians, of ages thirty and twenty-eight respectively, arrived safely in Bern, Switzerland, to report as per the instructions they received after applying online. Bern is the capital of Switzerland, you may know. Therefore, it houses the parliament building. This is quite logical. The building looks stale filthy and aged from the outside but is extraordinarily beautiful from the inside. It is built upon three themes: the inception at Rütli, which equates to a birth; the key principles of the Confederation and the cultural, historical, economical, and political diversity of Switzerland; the key areas that mature slowly over many years as occurs in your typical snot-nosed and crabby for no good reason adolescence that everything including countries must go through. You can book a guided tour inside. You cannot book a guided tour outside. Outside only, at the square, you can see the play of water with twenty-six sprinkles standing for twenty-six different cantons. Inside you could search for all eternity, but you will never see, at any square, the play of water with twenty-six sprinkles standing for twenty-six different cantons. Last but not least, go to the terrace of the building. There is a cable car named Marzili bahn, the shortest in Switzerland with a travel height of thirty-one meters, which will take you down to the Marzili district. You get a shiny view of the green cupola right outside the station. Anywhere else but on the terrace of the building, you will never find a cable car named Marzili bahn, the shortest in Switzerland with a travel height of thirty-one meters, which will take you down to the Marzili district. And, you can wait for all eternity, but you will never get a shiny view of the green cupola right outside the station; so, yes, hey, but—at any rate Bern is the city where the Davis’ came to for the first round of approval for acceptance into Le Club de la Resurrection. After settling into their pre-provided and paid for hotel room, and taking a quick recharge of a short nap and a shower, Jamed and Wendy stepped out onto the softly bustling sidewalk before the monstrously expensive five-star Hotel Bellevue Palace Bern, squatting large, grand, and ancient on the Kochergrasse. The sun beamed down around them as they stepped to the curb.
Lord God, I can scarcely believe we are here! exclaimed Wendy. The ground we are standing on, is, actually a whole different country! I’ve never been to another country. It’s amazing, I’m so excited, I don’t know if I’m going to live through this trip! I swear, it’s like an old storybook out here. Look at these buildings! Look at that clock tower! Everything is so old, but somehow spotless as if it were built yesterday!
That’s how it is when you’re in Europe, said Jamed. Everything’s a lot older than what we’re used to in the states.
It is very, very odd.
Oh, yeah. And in Switzerland especially. It’s been neutral for a long time, forever almost. Never bombed into ruins, invaded, dealt destruction of any kind for all that time. Something got built here that long ago, it stayed. It seems bizarre, but you get used to it.
How do you know?
I was in Europe in the Army, remember? When I first got here then, I thought lots of it looked old as hell too, over in Germany where I was at. But here, because it’s neutral, it’s even more extreme. Hey look, the map says we got to cross over. After this train goes by.
A totally quiet series of electrical streetcars glided by, tiny gentle golden sparks flashing in the darkness underneath where the connections to drive the cars forward were maintained. Its side slid along before Jamed and Wendy in a blur of gentle pastel colors, that though it was gone in just a few moments, it acted as a movie screen playing the sum of what had brought them to this point over the last few months and years, as; Davis’ funeral home, passed down to Jamed, the fifth generation to carry on the business. Are there other things in the world to do? To be? To become? No, no, no—so Jamed had been told since a boy. This business will be yours, little Jamed. This business, this fine well-regarded family name, the money banked everywhere, the homes in the country, the mountains, the shore, the top of the line cars the best of everything sky’s the limit, over a hundred and fifty years of Davises have built this empire to this point, it will be yours it must be yours it’s all you want son, think that yes, believe, know this is what you dream of becoming, just like the four generations before us, I dreamed of taking over when I was a boy, and I got my dream, it was handed to me, what’s wrong with having a dream handed to you programmed in that there is not a chance in hell you will not achieve, and you won’t even have to try. Dead people? There are always dead people. There is always a boomtime. There is always demand and there is always supply. You know how when we go up the Parkway to visit Aunt Inez every summer? You know that stretch where there’s just cemeteries all around as far as you can see to the sides, in the front, and behind? That’s money, Jamed. Those are not gravestones, no—those are all satisfied customers. And their sons and daughters and then their sons and daughters ad infinitum will use your services, because you are established. Because you are familiar. Because you are comfortable as old clothes are comfortable; as old cars are comfortable; as old houses and old money and old people and old cemeteries are comfortable, yes—as though you were their very Mother and Father and Rabbi Minister Priest, or even God--
Jamed! Come on! We can cross now. They’ve passed by—what, are you asleep or what? I know the flight was long, maybe we should do this tomorrow.
No, no—I’m sorry. I was just daydreaming. Come. Let’s go. We cross over and we go down this street a few blocks and we’ll come to number one. That’s where they’re expecting us. They said come see them as soon as we’re settled. We better follow the rules.
But isn’t it late? Won’t their office be closed? It’s like—six thirty, I think—damn, I can’t convert the time. Is it six thirty? If it is, there’s probably nobody there.
I don’t know. I just know they told me that they are there all day and all night and that we should do nothing else after we check in the hotel before we go and see them and sign some paperwork. I think it’s best to push through a bit and get this over with. Here, this is the way. Go that way. It’s just a few blocks.
Just a few blocks? Huh. I am tired as a dog from flying and taking the train and then the taxi and all that for what seems like weeks. I don’t know if I can walk a few blocks.
Sure you can. Hey, listen—they haven’t approved us yet. We don’t want to screw anything up. You can do it.
I hope so.
Okay, good! Come on, let’s step out. You can do it do it with me. Race!
Okay—yes!
The slate sidewalk flowed all sped up flashing superfast smooth underfoot poundyfeet pounding all like a caterpillar track running fast pulling suction to suck out their growing leg knee thigh fatigue to keep them going; they passed a UPS truck that could have been back home. I hope so, she says, thought Jamed, moving fast—I hope so is what she says about everything when she really just wants to give up. I told her again and again, You can do it you can do it—she stood white as a sheet in the embalming room with me when we started her on her first cavity embalming. She said why do I have to do this, why can’t you do it just this one time, I’ll do it next time; and her face rippled bloodless, whiter than a sheet, I know this wasn’t her first time because she did finish embalming school, has the diploma to prove it, so I did not understand—push the trocar, in there, right there—I hope I can do it but I don’t know—you have to do more than hope you can do it you just have to let go and fucking do it—I know, I’m sorry, I am not yelling at you—the sidewalk is fast must be careful don’t trip—there we have gone one whole block now—how many blocks is it—there, right there, just push it through the skin—it won’t go in—push harder yes, it is razor sharp—it’s about ten blocks—I hope I can make it—push and you can, harder, there, that’s right, jab, yes—the intention remember is to release any built up gas and fluids in the organs—huh, what? What did you expect this job would smell like, Wendy—it’s in how deep now—keep walking let’s walk faster—wasn’t the embalming room in that old school up Bellevue just reeking of rotten foul sweet and sour and yeast superstrong—this guy must be all empty inside I can’t feel anything—push the trocar another few inches to clear the cavity wall, you’ll hit the hot mishmash in the cold soup and all that know that joke? Not funny, not no, I can’t look at his face please cover his face—wait, wait, no, I’m too busy, I need to connect the chemical lines, hold it steady right there, now; okay, Wendy—with your toe under there push the pedal start the pump—okay now I pushed it the pumps running can you please cover his face—I got nothing to cover it with plus I got to watch make sure the pump’s set right—don’t want a rupture—God, just don’t look—I don’t know if I can do this job, Jamed—you went to school you did this a million times you seen as many dead faces you can and you will do this job, Wendy—I hope I can, but—what’s that dripping leaking there what’s that spattering down on my shoes—don’t let go the trocar, that’s why—oh God, give it here. Let me do it, let me. You can do it next time.
I hope so.
Hey, wait!
Pounding slower slowing them both, He says wait, slow, wait--
What’s the matter?
We’re almost there—let me look, let me, here; let’s move over get out of the way.
A fat yellow van labeled BETON COUPE was unloading before them. As they stepped back in a darkly grim oversurrounding thickly rough built arched doorway, Jamed pulled a balled up torn and dirty piece of paper from his pocket, lifted it, and peered. As he strained to see the faded scribble he’d made months ago when they’d phoned him the details, Wendy took advantage of the pause to idly count the number of bicycles on the block-long rack across the street. Giant construction cranes all blue and yellow thrust up above the city in the greater distance. The cranes and the bikes; some of the cranes were the same colors as the bikes and vice versa, versa vice, yes, yes, the rising fatigue rendered everything mysterious and seeming to be false somehow a lie--
Number one, shouted Jamed. We got to watch for it. Come on. Let’s keep moving. Where are the numbers? Slow now, there—there! The numbers don’t really make sense we just got to watch slow slow pay attention--
Look—it says that place over there is a casino. Is that for betting? They got casinos in Switzerland? Huh, do they?
An extraordinarily ear-splitting little car sped by sounding like a thousand tearing ripping heavy lengths of brittle cloth fading revealing Jamed saying over his spouse, There it is, Wendy. There it is, right there!
What? Where?
Over there, by that big Casino sign—come on, it’s clear, let’s cross. It’s in that building. There—but hold it, wait. Something’s wrong.
What?
That’s the address, but it says Dental Office. What the—yeah, it says Dr. Eugene Patriciosilva. My God, what a name, eh? But this has to be wrong. This is a dentist. We want the Resurrection Club—number one we want. This can’t be. I swear to God.
But it is number one. It says—see, Jamed, I knew it was wrong to apply for this. We have been taken. Like I thought we’d be.
No. It is not wrong. And how are we taken? We’ve spent not a penny. They paid our way and hotel and food and all. At the very least, we get to spend a few days in Switzerland for free. No way, no way. There’s just some mix-up. We’re going in to ask. Wait here let’s try.
Jamed pushed the brilliantly polished aluminum doorframe, and the angle of sun glinted super bright across both their faces as they entered, stepping into a perfectly spotless odorless super-sterile dazzlingly lit waiting room; all the more unreal because there were no light fixtures visible in the ceiling, walls or anyplace at all. The extremely unnatural oversanitary smelling perfection-blast slowed them just short of gagging up, but they did not, it must be just the jetlagged fatigued weak and dizzy state they had pushed through to obey the strict orders to check in immediately with this outfit they wished to join, only to find there was no such place and ending up facing some fresh rouged dental receptionist with perfect hair dressed in robin’s egg blue scrubs who blurted at them sweetly, bright, and so, so, purely, Welcome to Doctor Eugene’s office! Do you have an appointment? Name, please. Please spell it. Go ahead. I’m ready.
Jamed’s fatigue and nervousness at Wendy’s suggestion about their possibly having been given a ride by some group of blackhearted supertricky pranksters pulled a rapid string of anger from his mouth that said, No! I and my wife have traveled for twelve or more hours to get here. I have a sheet of paper that says we should report to this address, but it is wrong! This is a dentist’s office—you are not who we are here to see! Where is the office of the group we applied to join that paid our way here got us a hotel and told us we needed to report here at once I am not in the mood to be nice I am much too tired to be nice, why is this a dentist’s office and not the headquarters of the Resurrection Club? Look here, look! Here are the papers we were sent!
Let me see that, sir, she said, unperturbed. Jamed and Wendy’s breath came hard shallow fast and the invisible tendrils of their microbe-infested humid hot breath drew a fine faint but perfectly legible signature twining around itself, and the round hairy perfectly parted shiny black hairy headtop of the receptionist tilted at Jamed as she leaned down reading the papers, and it seemed to be taking much too long yes much too long and he began to believe the headtop had no attached face or receptionist, it was an it, actually, less than an it, really; a frozen statue of superdriedout meat yah hey ho I it reads on and on this is my eternal destiny to wait planted here I am not Jamed I am a plant I’ve been rooted here all along the life I thought I’ve lived through all over has just been a hallucination, I am a plant not even potted less than potted rooted in the earth can never move can’t take it can’t live like this must sleep go comatose cease being aware and—the room’s much too clean oh yes too too clean so clean so clean is a powerful sleep-inducing druggy medicine of a sort but wholly odorless and invisible but—it sank into her drain of a face blooming up from the hairy headtop and brought Jamed slightly up from his sleep drift, by saying brightly all wide-eyed, Jamed and Wendy Davis? Is that you? We have you here—yes. Good, you are right on time. That is a tremendous plus, because most are not.
Not what? Not late? Hey if we are at the right place why is this a dental office?
You are in the right place, she said, picking up the phone—just breath slowly and deeply with rhythm while I call the Great Founder.
The Great Founder? What is the doctor’s name? Did you say The Great Founder? Did the sign really say dentist, God damn it, tell The Great Founder it was a hell of a long flight, I think we both feel three inches shorter and several score of fifty-pound lumpy rock-hard potato sacks lighter and we think The Great Founder needs to hear that. What does the soul weigh? Are we dead? Please answer us! and Jamed rattled on in this vein, until the receptionist took advantage of his needing to take a breath to survive, to raise her hand and speak politely.
Yes, sir, this is a dental office. We need to bring in income to continue, just like any other organization. But, just know that you are in the right place. You have indeed reported to The Resurrection Club, just breathe slowly and deeply with the rhythm of the relaxing cool clean air surrounding you, and Dr. Eugene will be right in. The phone is ringing, it takes a while for them to pick up, it gets pretty busy back there. Just hang on and breathe evenly of the wonderfully relaxing air, as I said. It is so wonderful, it is much like a drug in some ways. I absolutely love breathing it every day. Yes, I do. So calm and clean. Yes clean—hey what tell us where is your child where is your little child Janie, in your biographical questionnaire you said you have a girl named Janie. We want to see Janie. Did you bring Janie? Janie is such a name, you know—you know you know you know yes you—hey--
No! Wait! Exclaimed Jamed with a sharp cut of the edge of his hand. No, wait never mind the Godd---ed air and all that noise, never mind Janie, Janie is all safe and sound with Granny, thanks. But never mind that anyway.
—what, yes, there’s a question where’d it go oh there it is grab it ask it--
Lady, here’s the thing. Is this, is this really, the Resurrection Club? I mean you say it is, but how do we know? We don’t know you.
Jamed, said Wendy, elbow-jabbing. What is the matter, why--
No no no, I need to ask this lady. Is this the right place to be to gain acceptance to the Resurrection Club? When are you going to take us in the back as that must be where the Resurrection Club stays together the more rabidly hypnotized members take pictures there which they bring home and post up and hear interested people say Lord, what was it like? Was that where it all originally got thought up and built exclusively on planet earth? Is that where the Resurrection miracle actually got thought up and started? And all at once, it was a different place and time, and Wendy and Jamed opened their eyes seeing that an entire waiting room of people was looking up toward the stairhead they were starting down from, their mouths puffed out with laughing gas and Novocain that told them they had just seen the dentist, and the waiting room of people were cheering whistling raving and shouting and clapping their hands and stomping their feet, making Jamed and Wendy feel like plenty of would-be rock stars dare to feel; they had dared Jamed’s childhood small town on the job trained dentist, Doctor Forney, whose carefully placed fillings always fell out in three days, to wake from the dead and do these last few molars. They leaned back and the Doctor said, Open up—wide—wide—wider. Yes, that way. The long thin silver glinting sharp pointed probe ran along guided by his trembling liverspotted hand under the lip of their gums scraping their teeth quite painfully, but, after all, who could complain? Pain, and dentists, go together. Going there, you got to know what you’re stepping into unless you’re gone lame-brained. The dentist pulled the probe over cracking the thick plaque deposits apart. The cracking roared in their thin but hard headbones. Hoover Dam would be bursting to provide a silly set of vestments with which to go to church or chapel in before there would ever be healing sounds so painful, but so necessary, coming ever again through their headbones. Three days later, boomed Father. Three days later, it never fails. All his fillings fall out in your mushbowl, why the hell did you go to that quack? He went to dental school it says, the big diploma on the wall behind his big bald self, seated at his desk, calculating the best angles to cheat on his quarterly taxes. He’s both a crook and a quack; a cruack. No accountant for him; it’s cheaper to do it all yourself. Much easier to do illegal number pumping in private. Get a tiny tub of plumber’s putty. Plumber’s putty can fill any cavity from the size of your typical planet on down. There are really countless planets swarming ‘round the sun, she said. Her red mop of black rooted thick wavy hair covered the brain that had centuries ago thought together the wisest truth of all. There are planets smaller than the human eye can see. There are planets smaller than the human eye can see upon which surge blue oceans washing the shores of green continents holding scores upon trillion more scores and more of tiny to medium to huge living organisms to pulsating things too large for a million and one gas giants greater than ten Jupiters to provide the universe’s widest deepest seas to sink gone into, whew; and; there seems to be a line of inflammation along the gums of both applicants, the hygienist told the tall masked doctor gravely. He sat on a stool after stretching and snapping on tight colorless rubber gloves the color of cheaply made imported unlubricated chinese condoms. Well, let me see. Here it is. Open—yes. Back bottom molars yes? Is that where you saw inflammation? Yes, she said. Two faces and masks close in blocking the painting on the ceiling of cloud-peppered miraculously blue sky much too pure too clean and perfect to survive in nature, even in places with absolutely no gusts whipping up ever regardless of this or that sequentially named curlicue rainy-day hurricane season blowstorm. No, said the dentist. There is no rot there. They have not got maggots in their mouthholes, no they don’t. Advise them both to floss hard each day in that spot. They have been neglecting the spot. They have been paying attention to too many seemingly more important things than the health of that row of molars. I? Why am I a dentist? Okay. My Father was a dentist as was his Father and Mother and more all the way back over again and over again, to the Doctor the whole town kept going to because he was the only game in town, okay? Many fillings lay forgotten though paid for when first put in with all the best intentions in the world, in the landfill through all the years piercing through the barrier year, that being the year the dentist died, but the fillings kept on and remained for all posterity, eternally circled by seagulls in the windy trashy blow, and smelling all wrong. So, tell them when they wake they have passed, and they are in Le Club de la Resurrection. Tell them when they wake they have passed and they are in because obviously they are on no drugs they floss three times daily and wash thoroughly after each and every wipe so are worthy of eternal life. I believe I do that they are fine candidates to be taken for a ride until they die for large automatic monthly payments. The amount of these payments is stated below. These will be automatically deducted from the provided bank account no later than the fifteenth of every month. Tell them that doctor Eugene Patriciosilva has given them the go ahead to be added to the rolls of Le Club de la Resurrection. Did Jesus have perfect teeth? Most probably. Did Lazarus raised from the dead have perfect teeth? Most probably. Did the son of the great Shunammite woman have perfect teeth? Very unlikely, but still was allowed to rise from the dead, for reasons incomprehensible. There are no rules, nothing absolute—and make sure the contracts they sign are the latest version that point out in plain English that there are never any guarantees in nature, and past performance is no guarantee of future results. That’s nothing, just the general legal capper you need when dealing with the many common scumbags mixed into the great unwashed public, that you will always catch one or two of in your net, and that you need to eliminate as soon as possible so that the good fruit will not catch on and spread their rot across the whole million-acre cropfield--
Jamed and Wendy remained staring at the receptionist’s swift hands working reams of paperwork paperclipping binders of documents, they waited feigning patience as the polite waiting in line held up by the confusion of someone all stupid and unprepared and angry fighting it out with the pharmacy clerk about what insurance covers and what it doesn’t and about what the stupid store clerk told them yesterday what would be done and to come in and everything would be in order, and it isn’t and wasn’t and the promise is being denied and insisted upon and denied and insisted upon each iteration a notch higher until at last the inevitable demand to see the manager erupts, and all the while the line politely feigns patience yes patience--
All right. Mr. and Mrs. Davis, everything has checked out and been approved by the Great Founder, and we’re all now ganged together to loudly tell you, welcome to the Resurrection Club. It is a decision you will not regret ever and ever and forever and all!
Shake her dry bony hand, but protest. Wait, what? We—what has been checked out and approved? We’ve been standing here waiting to find out what’s what!
Your health has been approved. You have not just been standing here. It has been hours. You have been through a complete battery of tests. You, as are all our candidates for admission, were rendered insensible with powerful hypnotics throughout it all so that you would experience not a glimmer of anxiety or discomfort. A large staff has busily run you through at least a dozen quick sharp procedures. It is nearly midnight--
What? No—Jamed and Wendy snapped up their watches, and almost in unison, snapped all singsongy, Jesus Christ, its true! What the h---! We’ll be d---ed!
D---ed? No. No, no, never will that happen, joked the receptionist—after all, you are now, well, I hate to use the term or make promises, but—it’s quite possible you will in the long run be immortal, if all goes according to plan and the Great Founder achieves his goals.
Yes, but God. This is so surprising.
The receptionist waved up a small thin hand.
Don’t be surprised by anything that happens here. Our technology as developed by the Great Founder and his team, is advanced. But, at any rate, your overall head-to-toe hygiene level is approved. You both care for yourselves. And, most obviously, you care for your teeth daily. People that take care of their teeth daily take care of their whole selves forever. The Great Founder has found this to be a rule. Anyway, here. Here are your binders. They contain your contracts and the full ream of small print which you may review at your leisure. And, of course, you know, the final kicker is; Jerry Garcia the fourth to die will come sit down hungry and eat for free so fast she will get to her sweet sweet end right with you guys, absolutely free.
The Davis’ took the binders and tucked them under their arms smiling and nodding at the receptionist as she began talking again, saying, And finally, here; each of you sign there on your respective dotted lines with these identical ballpoint pens which are brand new and have never been used. There. Yes, yes—by the X.
Okay, sure, thanks, no problem.
Yes, by it—right there. Not over it. Not under it. By it. Not in front of it. Behind it. The line shows you where. Make the X with two strokes. Not like the Roman Numeral II. Not like the equals sign, =. Not like the greater than or the less than signs. Not like the plus sign, +. There are many ways to do it wrong but only one way to do it right. There. Yes, yes—by the X. Oh, wait no, that’s wrong. Here do it again, she said, and she rapidly pulled away the signature sheet and slid the Davis’ another.
What? What was wrong with that one?
Never mind. Just do it again. Go on. There.
Okay—wait. This pen won’t write. You got another?
What? she sniped, ripping it away. What do you mean the pen won’t write? It has to. It just has to. I cannot shuffle shuffle around my ten thousand junk drawers looking for a decent pen, because that will take too long and you will have forgotten my instructions and I shall have to repeat them all over again, so, try it again, Davis’, yes, you Wendy, you, Jamed—try it and try it and try it again until it God-da--- works yes works yes yes until it works! Here!
She thrust it at them sharply and long.
Jesus, lady; you almost jabbed me. Here. Give it here easy.
No. Because you will just find another thing wrong. And, knowing you like I do, because each and every candidate for Le Club de la Resurrection says when I go off like this from you to myself something like, What is the matter, ma’am? you’ll say to me. What—sign what? you’ll say to me next. And so on, as; you gave us nothing to sign, you just kind of—went off! I am not going to care if you’re offended, you’ll yell at me, because I might never see you again in my life again, because between now and the time years from now you need to come here again, the turnover rate for low-paid receptionists is so d---ed high and will get higher that no way will I be here anymore, it’s like a cheap family eating sh-t fast food off some scumbag chain that you go to each week and each week they’re training new waiters why do they even bother they know they’re only going to be in town for a couple of days and the service will never be anything but rock bottom quality, which is no quality. The absence of quality, yes, no; the quality abscess popping video with half a million new views every day I mean I could tell you the name it’s something to see got paper and pen? Got paper and pen, oh, I hope you have paper and pen I do I really truly do indeed! Got paper and pen paper and pen ah—here’s a call for you for you--
Still repeating again and again got paper and pen got paper and pen, she held up a telephone to the Davises. Jamed took it, and clapped his hand over his other ear because the receptionist not two feet from him was pumping out word noise faster and faster and faster.
Hello? said Jamed.
Hello. This is doctor Patriciosilva. I am next in command under the Great Founder. Never mind the receptionist. She is not a receptionist. She is an actor playing a part. Your reaction to her has been observed via closed circuit. I am pleased to tell you that you have passed the test. We welcome you and your spouse Wendy to the first level of Le Club de la Resurrection. You are in. We will begin monthly billing on the fifteenth of this month. Goodbye--
Wait! What—tell me more about the billing. I--
No. The details are in the binders you were given. Don’t worry, we know you are good for the payments. We know a lot about you, you know. Maybe some things you don’t know about.
How can that be? What things?
Later—but for now, know that part of the test is that you must never tell Mrs. Davis what you were told on this call. Do you agree to that?
Why should I? Tell me what that test is for!
No. You have been told. What you do from here on will tell the tale.
What tale? What--
Goodbye.
The click of the phone was as a hammering steam piston driving against Jamed’s ear and causing him to instantly if not faster hand the phone back to the receptionist who looped around loudly larger and broader every time, bellowing; I hope you have paper and pen I do, I really truly do, indeed! Got paper and pen paper and pen ah yes! I really and truly hope you do indeed! Ah, yes, I really and truly and truly and really hope you do!
Davis gripped the edge of the binder from her and leaned under her rampage of a voice , which was following the script exactly, what an actress, where had they found her—each punch of her noise made him stoop to keep clear and lean and get the pencil and sign the correct legal name on the sheet by the X, then the other Davis did the same, and they turned and scooted under the descending thickly lumpy becoming all crazy and insanely sweaty their temperatures were rising and rising and they hammered their way out the door into the hall, and in absolute self-defense they cut her wordstream to its final length by slicing shut the bladelike spotless stainless steel door and finishing off the wide awake part of the day like some intricate massive mass production factory machine cutting thousands and thousands of streams per day; as the Davises walked through the dark to the hotel, they talked together about what had just happened over the last several hours, and each step brought them more and more out of some sort of fading hangoverlike state of shellshock that didn’t fade until they came in their big wide hotel of a bed.
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