Summer Quarterly 2008 Winner            

First place, publication and $150 goes to  

        Karen Swensson, Georgetown, TX

 

 

Doors Closing

 

Karen lived in the Midwest until 1975, when she and her three children became military dependents, living in Zaire and Germany. In 1995 she earned an MBA from the University of Chicago. In 2005 she retired to Georgetown, TX, where she is a member of the San Gabriel Writers League.

 

 

Second place:  Kat Gonso, Jamaica Plain, MA
 

         Elephant Play

Kat Gonso is currently pursuing her MFA at Emerson College.  Kat splits her time between her two passions: creative writing and teaching composition. Currently, she teaches a research writing class, "Genre as Social Action," at Emerson. In the past, Kat has taught at Le Cordon Bleu Culinary Institute and creative nonfiction for the Emerson Summer Arts and Communications Academy.

    I Say the Word

DOORS CLOSING
 
A headlight in the distance reflected on the curved tunnel wall
moments before the train came into view, commanding her attention as
it rushed powerfully toward her along the empty platform, then slowed
to a smooth, confident stop and opened its doors. Sarah stepped
inside. Her eyes scanned the car as she slid into an empty window
seat across the aisle, just behind the doors.

"Doors closing. This is the Red Line to Howard," a recorded voice
announced as the train lurched forward to be swallowed by dark tunnel
walls. Sarah reached up to wipe a tear, beginning its mascara-stained
path down her cheek.

Near the front of the car, a woman jerked upright in her seat,
glancing quickly around as if trying to witness her attacker's
retreat. Startled, Sarah turned away from the window. The woman
repositioned herself, crossing one long, fishnet leg over the other,
tugged at her short black leather skirt, then folded her arms across
her tightly sweatered chest. Muttering unintelligibly, the woman
leaned her head back against the window and returned to sleep, her
snores punctuating the click-clacking rhythm of the train. Sarah
flushed,
remembering the time she had bought a black leather miniskirt.
"Take it off, you slut!" he had screamed at her.
"But I thought you would like it," she had offered.
"No wife of mine is going to go around dressed like a whore!" he had
raged as he ripped the skirt from her body and pushed her roughly
onto the bed, forcing her legs open with his knee while he reached
for his zipper.

Sarah shuddered. Taking a deep breath, she released her arms from the
straps of her backpack and wrestled it onto her lap. She opened the
zipper and slid a neatly manicured hand inside for her key ring,
allowing her finger to trace the key's familiar peaks and valleys,
her head bowed, eyes closed. Her gaze returned to the window as she
withdrew her hand and hugged her backpack to her chest.

The lights flickered and she looked up, exposed. From across the
aisle, bass tones, pounding without melody, escaped from headphones
attached like an appendage to a young man in baggy jeans that hung
precariously from his hips. He looked in her direction, not seeing
her, contorting his face into an anguished grimace as the music
reached a crescendo.  "Oh, yeah!" he said aloud, his jerking body not
skipping a beat as his eyes closed again. What had Dillon called it?
Head banger music. She smiled sadly. How long had it been?

"North and Clybourn," boomed the recorded voice. "Armitage is next.
Thank you for riding the Red Line to Howard."

Sarah felt completely and utterly alone.
***
"Has anyone ever told you you have very expressive eyes?" a voice
behind her had asked as she stood in line at the University of
Chicago coffee shop shortly after the beginning of her freshman year.

Sarah turned around to look, assuming he must be talking to someone
else. She caught her breath, amazed that his full attention seemed to
be focused on her.
"No," she blurted out, "but thank you."  She could feel her face
flush as she turned around to place her order. He was standing so
close that his breath tickled the back of her neck.
"Here. Let me get your coffee."  His arm held her waist as he reached
around her to pay the cashier. He smiled confidently, his eyes
capturing hers. "Let's find a table." He led the way, and Sarah
followed without question.
***
I saw her across the room and thought, "There's one foxy chick." I
got in line behind her, trying to think of some way to strike up a
conversation. I figured she'd brush me off, but when I got close, and
she turned around and looked at me, I could tell she was interested,
too. There was something about her eyes. It seemed like you could get
lost in her eyes. She was kind of shy. I did most of the talking and
she just listened, giving me her undivided attention. Those eyes were
turning me on. I found myself wondering how hard it would be to get
in her pants, and if I could do it without making a lifetime
commitment. I definitely wasn't ready for a commitment. I didn't want
to get stuck like my old man.
***
As the train began its ascent out of the tunnel, Sarah's stomach
growled. She reached into her backpack again, retrieving a bottle of
water, warm from her body heat, and a Luna bar. Orange Bliss, the
label said, as if referring to the sunrise outside. She ate and drank
slowly to make her breakfast last.

"Doors closing. Fullerton is next. Change to the Brown and Purple
Lines at Fullerton."
She closed her eyes. She could see Lloyd, standing with his back to
the thirty-first floor conference room windows, to the view of Lake
Michigan, its calm blue ripples bleached by the late afternoon sun.
She shivered, remembering how cold the room had seemed.
"I have just completed negotiations for a merger which will mean some
changes to the way we do things. We will all need to pull together."
Lloyd smiled broadly to his assembled audience, his steel grey eyes
focused directly on her, challenging. Negotiations? Pull together?
How could he not tell her? He must have been working on this for
weeks.
"I can't do this anymore," she had said aloud. The legs of her chair
made no sound on the carpet as Sarah pushed herself back, glancing at
the faces around the table, each now intently focused on her.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and rose from her chair
as she selected shut down on her laptop's pull down menu, then
yes. She was sure. She closed the cover and reached across to
unplug it from the outlet in the center of the conference table. Then
she gathered her meeting handouts, tossed them into the large corner
waste container, and walked out of the room.

"Sarah!" Lloyd commanded as the heavy door closed firmly behind her.
Sarah kept walking.
Outside, she headed toward the lake and turned north along the
shoreline, dodging roller blades and bikes careening past at warp
speed, maneuvering her way among joggers and dog walkers and
nanny-guided strollers to an empty bench along the path, close to the
water. A knot began in her stomach and worked its way up to her
chest, tight, pressing against her heart.

"Focus on your breath. Let the thoughts roll on by."  Sarah repeated
the familiar mantra, closing her eyes, willing herself to find calm.
She would not allow the fear to control her--not this time. When she
opened her eyes at last the sun was beginning to set. She checked her
Rolex. There was still time to get to the condo, change into workout
clothes, and grab her backpack.

"Think about what you're doing!" the voicemail message on the hall
phone screamed.  She did not want to think about what she was doing.
She adjusted her backpack and, pulling the door closed behind her,
headed for an elevator.

Sarah began walking in the direction of the health club. She passed a
church, its doors open, inviting. Perhaps just for a moment...  She
climbed the steps slowly.
"Welcome to our sanctuary," a voice said as she entered the dimly lit foyer.
"I just need a place to think. I don't know..." Words, held in for so
long, spilled out of Sarah then, fighting to be heard, acknowledged.
Each time Sarah paused to take a breath, her listener quietly waited
for her to begin again.
"I didn't figure out what to do," Sarah said much later, her words spent.
"You will."
It was past midnight when Sarah left the church, walked to the el
stop on the corner, and descended to the platform below.
***
"Belmont is next. Change to the Brown and Purple Lines at Belmont..."

Across the platform, Sarah saw the first wave of morning commuters.
How long had she been riding? The train slowed, then stopped to open
its doors.
"Out, please," she blurted out as she stood up and pushed her way
through the crowd toward the door. "I need to get off here. I'm going
the wrong way."

She stepped out into the sunlight and walked along the platform
toward the steep metal stairs, feeling invigorated as she climbed up,
crossed the bridge over the tracks and descended to join the
southbound army on the other side of the platform.

The day was going to be a scorcher. She felt the dampness of
perspiration under her arms, between her legs. She needed a shower
and a change of clothes. She probably smelled. Removing her backpack
from her shoulder, Sarah unzipped it and reached inside, allowing her
fingers to find the key again and her thoughts to drift. Maybe...

Shaking her head, she pulled out her wallet instead, turning her back
to the assembled army to shield her actions. It was still there,
tucked carefully out of sight behind her driver's license. Sarah
returned her wallet to her backpack, which she slung back over her
shoulder as she boarded the southbound train.
***
"Can you please give me the account balance," Sarah asked, pulling a
bankcard from its assigned slot in her wallet and presenting it to
the Chase Bank teller.
"I'll need to see some identification."
Sarah presented her driver?s license.
"Thank you, Ma'am. There is a balance of $57,243.26."

He must have recently made a deposit. Sarah never saw the statements
for their joint account. He handled all their finances. She didn't
need to worry, he said. There would always be enough for her needs.
"Enough for my needs," she mused.
"What did you say, Ma'am?"
"I said I'd like to withdraw $57,000, please." Sarah answered
firmly, hoping to mask the tremor in her voice. As the teller focused
his attention on the computer screen, she willed herself to inhale
deeply and release her breath slowly. She felt calmer.

"This will bring your account below the minimum balance, Ma'am, and
your account will accrue a monthly service charge..."
Sarah interrupted, smiling. "I would like it in large bills, and
could you please put them in an envelope for me."

Sarah tucked the envelope into her backpack, which she carried in
front of her as she exited into the sunlight and crossed the street
to enter the Harris Bank, where she deposited $56,500 into her
account utilizing the bankcard carefully tucked behind her driver's
license. Looking both ways for oncoming traffic, she crossed State
Street in the middle of the block and walked toward Marshall Field's.
***
They were married at City Hall during the semester break of her
freshman year, and found a small, affordable apartment in Hyde Park.
He insisted that they arrange similar schedules so he could drive
them both to and from classes, enabling them to spend more time
together. He exploded when she told him one Sunday morning as they
were enjoying a delicious intimacy following their lovemaking.
"How could you let this happen?"
His outburst caught her off guard. He just needed time to adjust to
the idea, she thought.
She contained her excitement, sitting beside him on the bed, eyes
downcast, afraid to speak. He
pounded the mattress with his fist, again and again, punctuating his words.
"I thought you were being careful! I thought we agreed to wait! I
thought... He became more agitated, almost gasping for breath. "We can't afford a
child right now...." he said finally, his anger spent.
She continued to sit silently beside him, not knowing what to do.
After a few moments, she spoke softly. "I can drop my classes and get
a job until the baby comes."
She reached slowly for his hand and he turned to look at her. He
sighed as he put his arms around her, pulling her head to his chest.
She felt his heart pound then, heard his breath quicken. She held her
breath, afraid to resist when he pushed her roughly back onto the
mattress.

She withdrew from her classes and found a job in the Dean's office.
It was within walking distance of their apartment, but he insisted
upon driving her to and from work. She protested that it would be
healthy for her to walk, especially this early in her pregnancy, but
there was no point arguing with him when his mind was made up.
***
Sarah exited Marshall Field's back onto State Street, checked her
wallet to be sure she had enough cash, then raised her arm to signal
a passing taxi, which cut recklessly across two lanes of snarled Loop
traffic and screeched to a halt against the curb in front of her. She
reached down to open the door, dropped her shopping bags on the
leather seat, and slid in after them.
"East Bank Club, please."

The driver glanced at her in the rear view mirror, nodded, and
returned to his cell phone as he peeled away from the curb. Sarah
decided it was still too early to make her call.
The health club was not crowded at this hour of the morning. Sarah
opened the padlock on her locker and set her shopping bags on the
floor inside. Slowly, as if in a trance, she removed her workout
clothes, wincing slightly as the garments slid over her bruises. She
dropped each piece, in turn, onto the floor beside her backpack and
walked, trancelike, to a shower stall. As the soothing hot water
washed over her body and steam filled her nostrils, the tears came.
Sarah remembered another shower. She had been crying then, too.

Sarah dried off, then opened her locker and removed her shopping
bags, pulling the tags from each garment as she dressed. She walked
to the sink to brush her teeth and run a comb through her short, dark
blonde hair--no sign of grey yet--and dab a bit of under eye cover on
the dark circles inherited from her mother. A touch of mascara, a
dash of pale peach lipstick, and she was ready. She dropped her
workout clothes and empty backpack into the laundry hamper with her
towel, then walked outside to hail another taxi, again checking her
wallet to be sure that she had enough cash.
***
After Dillon was born, there had never seemed to be enough money, no
matter how hard she tried to economize. He wanted her to return to
the Dean's office, but she convinced him to let her take in ironing
to supplement their precarious finances. He came home early one
evening and found her still at her ironing board.
"What have you been doing all day? Is it too much to expect to have a
meal waiting for me when I get home?"
Everything happened so fast after that. When she asked him to keep
his voice down so he didn't wake their son, he exploded, rushed
toward her, and pushed her so violently that her body was propelled
backward, grazing the ironing board before hitting the wall and
sliding to the floor.
He turned and stomped out of their apartment. She rose slowly, walked
painfully into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and let the tears
come as the soothing water washed over her still clothed body.
"I don't know what came over me. I promise you it will never happen
again," he apologized later that night in their bedroom as she held
back her tears and tried to match his passion.
Satiated, he rolled off of her still trembling body, and she held her
breath, carefully turning her head to wipe a tear from her cheek,
afraid she would lose control if she allowed herself to cry. He
didn't notice.
"We're going to get a babysitter tomorrow night so I can take you out
on the town to show you how sorry I am," he muttered as he drifted
off to sleep.
They spent $100, earned $1 per hour at her ironing board, in that one
night on the town.
***
My old man took off when I was pretty young. He and Mom were always
fighting. She'd start to nag, so he'd leave, probably go have a few
drinks with his buddies. When he'd get home, I'd hear Mom start in on
him again. Accuse him of being drunk. Complain about how she was
stuck home with me while he was out having a good time. He'd hit her,
mostly to shut her up. Things would be OK for a while. Then one day
she'd start her nagging again and history would repeat itself. I
don't know how he stood it so long.
***
    "Where to, Ma'am?"
The driver leaned back, angling his ear toward her, awaiting her
direction. Sarah reached into her new carryon and pulled out her key
ring, moving it back and forth from one hand to the other. There
would be time to stop at the condo and pick up a few things...
    "Just head toward Lincoln Park West, please."

Sarah leaned back in the seat. The taxi headed north through the Loop
to Michigan Avenue, turning onto Lakeshore Drive. As they passed
stately old homes squeezed between imposing high rises, she
remembered the first time she had shown a house.

When their son entered kindergarten, Sarah had traded her ironing
board for a Selectric typewriter in a neighborhood real estate
office. Her husband objected at first. He liked her to be home when
he called during the day. But the money was good. He agreed to let
her try it part time.
"Sarah, I have a big favor to ask." The call from a sales agent came
in right after lunch. "I'm stuck in traffic. Could you please run
over to the Clark Street property and tell my client I'm on my way?"
"But what if she asks questions about the house?"
By the time the agent arrived, Sarah and the client had explored
every inch of the property together. Later, the agent called Sarah
into his office.
"You know, I can't officially share my sales commission with you," he
said, handing her an envelope, "but here's a little something to
thank you for all your help today. You don't have to tell anyone
about this. Stash it away for a rainy day."
***
Sarah leaned forward in her seat, not recognizing the sound at
first--whoosh, whoosh, pause, whoosh, whoosh, pause. It was raining
and the taxi's windshield wipers had begun an intermittent pattern,
as if in anticipation of an approaching storm. She closed her eyes
and remembered another time when it had been raining. They had been
on their way home from a soccer game, her husband driving, their son
slumped in the back seat.

"We should have won that game. What was the matter with you out
there, Dillon?" Lloyd had asked, his tightly clenched fists gripping
the steering wheel. "Haven't you remembered anything I've taught
you?"
"But, Dad, the grass was slippery. I had trouble keeping my balance."
"He's only ten. They were all having trouble..." Sarah started to
say, just before his fist hit her jaw and the car skidded off the
road, into a ditch.
"Shut up, Sarah! See what you made me do! Just shut up!"
It had happened so many years ago that Sarah couldn't remember who
stopped screaming first, she or Dillon.
"Why is Dad always so mad?" Dillon asked as Sarah tucked him into bed
that night.
"Well, you know, he's under a lot of pressure at work." Sarah
measured her words carefully.
"But why did he have to hit you?" Dillon's lower lip trembled.
"He didn't really mean to. He...he just sort of lost control for a
minute.  And he said he was sorry. Remember?"
"Yeah. But what if it happens again?" His voice was a whisper.
"We just have to be extra careful not to do anything to make him
angry. Everything will be all right. You'll see."
***
He only hit me once. Mom was crying pretty hard that time and I was
afraid he'd really hurt her so I tried to grab his hand to make him
stop. Guess I was about 9 or10 at the time. He reached out and
slugged me a good one. Knocked me across the room. I started crying.
I knew he hated crybabies, but I couldn't help it. He just stood
there a minute. "Shit!" he said. "She's made you a loser just like
she is!" Then he staggered out the door and drove off, squealing his
tires like he couldn?t get away fast enough. We never saw him again.
***
"Did you want me to take the North Avenue exit to Lincoln Park,
Ma'am?"  Perhaps she should reconsider.

The first time Sarah had left, her parents were still living. As she
removed Lloyd's favorite casserole from the oven, she realized she'd
forgotten to add sautéed onions. She heard his footsteps on the back
porch of the small two-flat they were renting in Wrigleyville and
held her breath as Lloyd opened the door, walked silently to the sink
to wash his hands, and sat down at the table, ready to be served. He
took one bite, then jumped up and pointed his fork menacingly at
Sarah.

"I come home expecting a decent meal," he screamed, "and you expect
me to eat this garbage?"
"Leave her alone, Dad!"  Dillon had jumped to his feet, his wiry,
fifteen-year-old's body poised to defend her. Lloyd threw his fork on
the floor and lunged across the table to slap Dillon with the back of
his hand.
"No!" Sarah screamed as she reached for Lloyd"s arm. He wrested it
from her grasp and raised a fist.
"Oh, to hell with both of you!"

He swept his arm across the table, scattering the unfinished contents
of their plates onto the floor, then turned and stomped out to his
car, slamming the kitchen door so hard that a pitcher of iced tea
fell from the countertop and shattered on the linoleum. Sarah smiled
at Dillon reassuringly and began sweeping up the shards of glass.

"Why don't you go put a cold compress on your face and I'll come in
and talk to you in a minute...when I finish cleaning up."

Her hands trembled when she dialed her mother's number, but she
managed to keep her voice calm. "Mom? It's Sarah. How would you like some company?"
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes, everything's fine. It's just that Lloyd is working a lot of
hours these days, and Dillon is on spring break, and so we thought
maybe it would be fun to take a little trip."
"Well, of course I'd love to see you. Will Lloyd be driving you?"
"No, he really can't get away. Dillon and I will take the bus. It'll
be an adventure."
"Are you sure you're all right?  You sound a little stressed."
"No, Mom. We're just fine, but I have to run now. If we hurry, we can
probably get there tonight. I'll call you from the bus station, okay?"
She had to get off the phone before she lost her composure.
"O.K., then," her mother said, but Sarah had already hung up.

"Hey, Dillon, can I come in?" Sarah asked as she knocked gently on
his door. She could see tear smudges on his cheeks when he opened it.
"I just talked to Grandma and she's invited us to visit her."
"Is Dad coming?"
"Not this time. He'll probably enjoy having some time to himself for a while."
"Did he say it was okay for us to leave?"
"I'll call him from the bus depot. Everything will be fine. But we've
got to hurry."

A week later, Lloyd brought flowers for Sarah and a Walkman for
Dillon when he appeared to collect his family. During the drive home
Lloyd reached for Sarah's hand. "I'm sorry I got a little upset last
week. I promise you it will never happen again. I really missed you
guys."

Sarah smiled, and moved closer to rest her head on Lloyd's shoulder.
The separation had been a good idea. It would be different this time.
***
"Just keep going," Sarah said to the driver. The taxi continued north
on Lake Shore Drive, past the sands of Oak Street Beach, the concrete
chessboards under the trees at North Avenue, the forest of sailboat
masts in Belmont Harbor.

The year before Dillon's senior year of high school they moved to a
condo overlooking Belmont Harbor on Sheridan Road, financed by a
modest inheritance from her parents. Lloyd had started his own real
estate business, and convinced Sarah to leave her long time employer
to join him. They didn't see much of Dillon, who seemed to prefer
spending time at his friends' houses.
"I'm tired of the way he bullies you, Mom. My friends' dads don't act
like that.  How can you let him treat you that way?"
"Because I love him, Dillon, and he doesn't mean it."
"That's what you always say! Don't you understand, Mom? I'm afraid
he's really going to hurt you one of these days!"

When Dillon went off to law school in another state, Sarah missed him
terribly.
"I love you, Mom, but I just can't come back home. Why don't you come
and visit me?"
"Your father needs me here. He's under a lot of pressure right now."
"Mom, when are you going to stop letting him control your life?"
***
The driver was waiting for her answer.
"O'Hare. Just take me to O'Hare, please." Sarah reached into her
carryon bag for her cell phone, and dialed the familiar number.

"Noonan, Davis, Gillian, Clark and Alvarez. How may I direct your call?"
"This is Sarah Davis. Is Mr. Davis available?"
"Hello, Mrs. Davis. He's been in court all morning. Hold on. I'll see
if he's back."
Sarah could hear the concern in his voice as he came on the line.
"Mom? Where are you? Are you all right?"
  "I am now, Dillon," she answered, smiling to herself.

  ____________________________________________________________________________________________________

 Elephant Play

After sex, Sam told Helen Garrows he would leave his wife. Helen was twenty-six and had dated nine married men, beginning with her high school Spanish teacher. Each man had promised to run away with her. Something about Sam’s statement, the lack of insistency, the faraway look, made Helen think that, perhaps, he would actually leave Martha. Helen pulled her cranberry colored lip-gloss off the nightstand, traced her lips, turned to Sam, and said, quite coolly, “I dare you.”
Recently Sam had begun slipping his wedding band into his pocket during his visits to Helen’s Lakewood apartment. They had been dating for approximately seven months. It was 1991. Sam liked buying her kitchen appliances before it was the custom to purchase such frivolities—a garlic press, a smoothie machine, a sandwich press. Helen didn’t like to cook, but she didn’t tell Sam that. They ate in the apartment, and when they did venture out they drove to the eastside of Cleveland to suburbs with names that sounded safe, like Willoughby and Wickliffe and Willowick.
 After Sam had declared his allegiance, Helen wrapped her body in a tattered, beige robe and retreated into the bathroom. She splashed cool water on her face, listening to Sam fumble for his boxer briefs and jeans. Sometimes he implemented a no-clothing rule in the apartment. He said he wanted her to find comfort in her body. Helen was thin with pointy elbows and blond eyelashes she licked with mascara. Over the years, her hair had grown straw-like in texture and color from endless dye jobs and the mid-eighties perm. It felt scratchy against her cheeks, so she wore brightly colored scarves and bandanas. But she was beautiful, in that understated way. Her eyes were always glowing, like bright blue coals. Sam looked like Ronald Reagan with an under-bite, an odd characteristic that made his jaw jut forward as if he had something of incredible importance to say. His work as head elephant keeper at the Cleveland MetroParks Zoo called for constant showers and accounted for his perpetually dry skin. When she unearthed bits of straw from the tangles of his hair, Helen giggled, claiming she felt like a monkey picking fleas.
Sam rapped on the door several times before entering. He said, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
 “I’m not scared.”
“When I said I’d leave her I mean that this is good,” he said. “And what I have at home with Martha is not good.”
 “I know this is good, but good things don’t always last.”
She clamped shut the toilet seat and sat. It was cool against her thighs.  Sam bent at the knees, towards her, and his bones cracked because he was tall. She liked the sound, though it made her think of age. Thirty-five seemed old to Helen, though she knew it was not that far away for her either. She bet Martha was aging well. Helen pictured her predecessor as a fair skinned goddess sprouting perfect black ringlets for hair. Other times she imaged a woman pale as Wonder Bread, with a yeasty, growing middle. The answer, most likely, lay somewhere in the middle.
 “Well, what don’t you like about us?” Sam asked her.
“I don’t know. You talk about the war too much. And Sadam.”
“That’s what you don’t like about me, not us.”
 She furrowed her brow in exaggerated mock-thought. “Your armpits smell, but not in that good way, and you don’t like Jeopardy.”
    “Valid points, but,” Sam began.
“But?”
“But, this is good. We are good. No real complaints.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes locked on the thick, red scars that radiated out from his torso, the claws from a tiger that had reached through the bars and clutched onto his midsection. That’s when he had switched to the elephants, which actually weren’t any safer. But elephants felt safer than wild cats, and that made all the difference to Sam.
***
They met under unlikely circumstances. Helen had taken Lily and Gillian Trout to the zoo for the afternoon. Every few weeks her boss, Dr. Trout of Trout’s Dental Dynasty, asked one of the dental hygienists to baby-sit. Dr Trout, who did not resemble a trout or any other variety of fish, had a pointed chin and large glasses that perched atop a nose that was too sharp and too big for his face. When Dr. Trout asked Helen to watch his girls for the afternoon so he and Mrs. Trout could rendezvous downtown, she knew she had little choice in the matter.
“Take them to the zoo. They’ll love it,” Dr. Trout said.
Helen shrugged. She didn’t have plans. She tucked the girls into pink jackets. They were in second grade and sported short red bobs. Washed-out faces and freckles. Dr. Trout placed good-for-your-teeth snacks into a plastic Polly Pocket lunchbox, patted each girl on the head, and told them to have a good time. 
At the zoo, Lily and Gillian pulled Helen towards the elephant arena. The girls were only interested in elephants because their dad told them that elephants could remember anything, and they too wanted to be able to remember everything after one try, particularly their multiplication tables. 
The elephants were located near the front of the zoo. There were three elephants, all females, or so the sign informed Helen. The elephants moved their heavy frames as if they were a burden. Their skin was thick, like gray clay plucked with a fork and their eyes were small, black marbles pressed into that clay.  Their arena was large and filled with tires and balls. A trench separated the spectators from the majestic animals and after a rain it filled with water. It reminded Helen of a moat snaking its way around a castle. One of the elephant keepers stood on an inner cement ledge, between the moat and the grassy elephant pen. Helen watched the man. There were several other elephant keepers, a lady with small glasses, a man with a bulbous gut, but she could only focus on one: the khaki-clad man with dirt on his cheeks, the man that looked, slightly, like Ronald Reagan.
 Helen hadn't been apart of a serious relationship in several years, dating only married men because she knew they would eventually leave her—she would not put up a fight. After each man returned to his wife, she found another one. It only counted as a relationship if it lasted more than two months. She liked sex even though she rarely had an orgasm, could have earned a PhD in faking it. She liked the different reactions of men during climax. Some giggled. Some clawed. Some looked mean. She always kept her eyes open. And she avoided love.
After the initial trip, Helen offered to take Lily and Gillian to the zoo again. Dr. and Mrs. Trout were thrilled. They lectured Helen about the importance of fostering a love for animals in the young, and told her that she could take the girls off their hands anytime. Helen hated to admit that she sometimes enjoyed hanging out with the eight year old girls. They seemed somehow more honest than “real people.” Helen remembered second grade. It was when she had realized the extent of her difference, her iron hand. As a child, Helen’s father had put an iron to her left hand, trapping, pressing like it was a Panini on the grill or a pant leg stubborn with wrinkle.  Forever-purple skin. One of her ex-boyfriends, Michael Dobbins, had bought her a waffle iron for Christmas, only burning red with the realization of his mistake after the unveiling.
Sometimes, when she was scraping plaque of a patient’s teeth, she thought about the elephant keeper.
Several weeks after Halloween, Helen took Lily and Gillian to watch the zoo’s annual Pumpkin Ball festivities. The elephant keepers gathered the pumpkins that were planted throughout the zoo, near piles of hay, leaning against posts and stairwells and the monkey cage. The first frost had come, so the pumpkin's skin had grown tough, but the stink from the inside, the rot, permeated into the air. The keepers tossed the pumpkins to the elephants. The elephants rolled the pumpkins into their gray mouths, using the trunks as spoons.
Lily and Gillian pressed their small frames into Helen's legs. Despite the cool wind off the lake, Helen’s palms were thick with sweat. 
“Why don’t you talk to him?” Lily asked Helen.
“Talk to who?”
”Your boyfriend,” Lily said. “You’re in l-o-v-e.”
“What are you talking about?”
”You look at him the way Filmore looks at Gillian,” Lily said.
“Does not,” Gillian squealed.
As if it were that simple, Helen thought.  “I am not in love. I am not in love with
anyone,” she said and crammed money into Lily’s coat pocket. “Who’s Filmore?”
“A third grader,” Lily cooed.
“Go get some ice cream.”
“It’s too cold,” they whined.
 “Shoo.”
The girls trotted towards the Haagen Daz kiosk and Helen decided that if children could see her obsession than she needed to do something about it. She could either nurture it, or kill it. She approached the handsome elephant keeper. He leaned into a wooden pole, patting down his khakis, pounding the caked dirt from the heel of his shoe with a small tree branch.    
She said hello. He looked up. "Elephant poo," he said, holding out the tree branch to her. On its edge perched a clump of dung. He flicked it into the arena, at the elephant and Helen laughed, though she was slightly disgusted.
 "What's her name?" She motioned to the elephant.
"Jo-Jo. She's the matriarch. Don't tell Matrika or Georgia, but she's my favorite."
 “And your name?" She was feeling forward and brave.
"Sam. Sam Thompson. I'd shake your hand but..." Once again, he waved the stick in the air.
 "I'm Helen," she said. "And I think elephants are my new favorite animal."
 "They should be. They're beautiful creatures. Dangerous and cruel, but beautiful."
 He playfully introduced Helen to Jo-Jo, and Jo-Jo to Helen. The elephant chomped into another pumpkin and the seeds drizzled out of her mouth like beads of melting wax.
"She looks like an old man."
"Don't tell her that," Sam said. Lily and Gillian bounced over, cheeks red. "Yours?"
"I don't believe in having children," Helen said.
"Don't believe? Or don't want?"
"A little bit of both."
This unusual meeting led to a drink, then a date, and another and so forth and so on until Helen found herself too thick into the mess to get out. Slowly, Helen Garrows broke all the promises that she had made to herself over the years. Don’t date for love. Don’t let him get too attached. Keep the wife in his mind. Talk about the wife. The wife is your friend. And, most important of all, don’t have children.
***
Helen’s concern regarding Sam’s proposal to leave his wife was well founded. Just one week after his proclamation, he had left Martha with a speed and ease that both exhilarated and terrified Helen. Sam asked Helen if he could move into her apartment, claiming he liked the food and the company. She said no. But Sam responded kindly, taking up residence at a nearby
Motel 6.
To make the situation worse, Helen thought she might be pregnant. Her period, which was more punctual than she herself had ever been, was three weeks overdue. The break with Martha was followed by several nights of half-dressed-half-on-the-bed-off-the-bed-not-half-bad sex. She thought they had used protection each time. They were both careful. But all that Carlo Rossi and cheap champagne…she couldn’t be sure. 
 Dr. Trout said she looked like shit. Gloria, the receptionist, told her to get some sleep or, at the very least, put some cucumbers under her eyes—reduce the puffiness.
 Helen found that all she could think about was this potential thing—no, she would not think of it as a living being—this thing that could swing on in and drastically alter her life. Forever. At twenty-six forever still seemed like a long time. Babies were impossible. She imagined herself clicking x-rays over and over, without a vest. She thought of calling up her one friend that had had an abortion, but did not.
 Although Helen did not speak with her father, she thought of her mother often. She called them once or twice a year, around holidays or a birthday. She did not know if she was ready to be a good mother. If she could ever be a good mother after her own mother, her own example, had watched as her father turned mean. Helen was not worried about becoming her father. No she would never be that but mothers, well, mothers were another breed entirely.
Gloria handed Helen a beige chart. Jimmy Tall. That’s a nice name, Helen thought. She liked to memorize as much of the charts as she could in the few minutes she had them in her possession before the cleaning. But today, all she could remember was the patient’s name. As she bent over the boy, she noted his prepubescent eyes grazing her chest.
As a dental hygienist, Helen could hide her iron hand. She had learned to if not like, than to appreciate the smell of latex. She pressed her fingers into Jimmy Tall’s gums, hunting for signs of disease. She asked Jimmy Tall is he wanted to be a father.
 “I’ll be thirteen in December,” he said.
“Not now,” Helen replied. “One day. Do you think you’ll want to be a father one day?”
“I think I need braces.”
His gums bled and she chastised him for a lack of regular flossing. He insisted that he flossed at least once a day. Helen called him a liar.
“You’re right,” Jimmy said. “I’m lying. Bur, really, what does it matter?”
She liked the boy. Pimples covered his face. They looked sore.
“I think I’m going to be a mother,” Helen told Jimmy.
 “Congratulation.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to be a mother.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for eighth grade.”
“Fair enough,” Helen said.
“Got a name?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“For a boy, I’d say Jimmy,” Jimmy said. “And for a girl, Gracie.”
“Gracie?”
”My mother’s name.”
Helen set the floss on the table and picked up the cheek retractor. “Time for your x-rays.”
“Does he know?” Jimmy asked.
“Who?”
“The father?”
    Helen shook her head no. Jimmy rinsed and spit. She looked out the window, to the parking lot where a red car circled over and over, searching for a spot to rest.
***
     Helen drove to the zoo. She would meet up with Sam and they would drive back to her apartment and she would take the test. At the pharmacy the pregnancy tests were locked behind a plastic door and she had not been embarrassed as the young pharmacist turned the key; it wasn’t her first time.
 “I’ve never bought one of these,” she told the young pharmacist. He looked her up and down, and smiled.

 At each red light Helen dug her hand into her purse, making sure the test was still there. It was the end of November and the zoo was cold and vacant. Abandoning her initial plan, Helen ducked into the zoo’s bathroom right when she got there. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted to know before she talked to Sam because perhaps it would be easier that way.

The cement floors were sloppy with water. Squatting over the toilet seat, she reflected on her life and what would happen if she were pregnant. She liked Sam. She actually liked him and he treated her well and he was good. A strip of toilet paper clung to her heel and that made her mad. After the test (positive), she pulled her hair into an  orange kerchief and practiced a smile into the mirror.
Sam smiled broadly when he saw her and rubbed the dirt from his hands onto his khaki thighs. Behind him, the elephants were at play.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just in the neighborhood. A surprise.” He guided Helen into the elephant enclosure, a
building attached to the outdoor holding area. She noted the cement floors, low lights. Sam wore his glasses so that the elephant muck did not hit his eyes. She picked a sprig of hay from his hair and flicked it to the ground. Sam made a joke about elephant poop, a reference to their first encounter, and Helen laughed nervously. Sam showed her the paintings the elephants had made. Over the years they had raised over one million dollars for charity.
“They hold these huge brushes with their trunks and swipe at the canvas.”
“That one looks like the severed arm of a man,” Helen said. “A man at war.”
“That one looks like an angel,” Sam said and she rolled her eyes. He kissed her neck, the spot where the pulse throbs. He was sticky and smelled like dirt and salt.
They walked past the other elephant keepers, small glasses lady and bulbous gut guy. These keepers were engrossed in medicinal inventory. They nodded slight hellos and Helen wondered if they knew who she was, and who she was not. The elephants were also inside, each locked in a metal cage. They had access to the outdoor arena. They could walk in and out as they pleased during the day, but it was too cold. 
“Hey Jo-Jo,” Helen called into the cage.
“Did you that know she’s over 6,000 pounds?” Sam asked.
 “Remember when you asked me what I don’t like about you?” He nodded. “Add useless facts to the list.”
“That’s not useless.”
“You’re so pretty,” Helen said, reaching her palm toward Jo-Jo. Her trunk swung through the bars and Helen jumped back.
“Careful,” Sam said. “She can be a feisty girl, can’t ‘cha Jo?”
He grabbed a handful of red treats that looked like dog biscuits and held them under Jo-Jo’s trunk.
“Ever eat one of those?” she asked.
 “Tastes like peanut butter and rum.”
 Helen appreciated his silly claim, his attempt to make her smile. It had worked. Jo-Jo sniffed the treats up her long snout. A thin film of hair and mucus covered the big nostril of her trunk, working hard like a vacuum attachment, sucking.
    “Did you want to grab some dinner? My shift’s almost over.” Helen nodded, thinking that perhaps it would be best to tell Sam the news in a public place, a place were if he left her then she wouldn’t be alone in her apartment. She though about men like Michael Dobbins, about what he would have done had she been pregnant with his child. It seemed long ago, another world, another Helen.
“Jo-Jo’s had a little fever, so I’ve just got to administer this antibiotic and we can go.” He extracted an obese plastic eyedropper that reminded Helen of a turkey baster. “I’ll just squeeze this into her mouth.”
He remained on one side of the bars, Jo-Jo on the other. He petted her warm trunk and talked softly, telling her that she would feel better soon. Sam placed the eyedropper into Jo-Jo’s mouth, hovering above the tongue. Jo-Jo’s marble eyes rolled towards the ceiling. Her low groan pressed the air. Helen didn’t know much about elephants, but she knew something was wrong.
“Sam,” she cautioned.
“It’s okay,” Sam said. Helen wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to Jo-Jo or to himself. She took a step toward him, her boot creating a quick, unexpected thud against the cement. Then, Jo-Jo wrapped her trunk around Sam’s neck, pulling him in towards the bars. His hands reached for the trunk without touching. The elephant keepers from the other room leapt to action. Helen watched as Jo-Jo tightened her grip on Sam, watched as that gray, coarse noose pinched the breath out of the man she had just decided to love.
 Sam gently stroked the trunk and Helen watched as the elephant slowly loosened her grip. The other elephant keepers pulled Sam away from the bars and immediately went about finding a sedative to administer to Jo-Jo. Sam hunched, hands on knees, and coughed at the ground. The eyedropper had crashed to the floor and rolled near the door. Helen retrieved it and held it out, waiting for someone to acknowledge her contribution to the chaos.      
 Sam rubbed his swollen, red neck. His voice was raw, as though his throat had been buffed with sandpaper. He coughed. “Shit, Jo-Jo, you could have killed me.”
Helen grabbed at the man with the bulbous gut. “Why didn’t she kill him?”
“They do that from time to time,” he said. “Sometimes they just crack. Even the nicest ones. Sam’s lucky.”
“One guy died. About a year ago,” small glasses said. Her hands were shaking.
“But why? Why didn’t she do it?”
 “I guess she didn’t want to,” bulbous gut shrugged.
Helen tentatively approached Sam. He was leaning into the wall drinking a bottle of
water. His hands shook. Helen thought of the red tiger marks circling his chest. She thought about death and loss and how she did not want to lose anything ever again. She thought about her parents and awkward phone call. Helen vowed she would stop dating married men. That Sam would return to Martha. And they would have a child together, Sam and Martha. And if anything ever happened to the child, any harm, she would grieve for the parents from afar. Perhaps in a great many years, she would return to the residence of the happy couple—the couple that had long ago forgiven and forgotten Sam’s infidelity—and present Sam with a daughter named Gracie or a son named Jim.
Sam placed his arm around Helen’s shoulders. His breathing had returned to normal, his face drained of its red. Sam leaned into Helen and promised her that everything was alright. And, for a moment, she believed him. 
     


 __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
 
 I Say The Word
 
Larry looked at me like I was the ship’s captain—jumping into the life raft and leaving him to drown.  
            “Rosie, you can’t go now. We have to talk. Figure out what comes next.” Helplessness looked odd on his linebacker physique, and it sparked a tightening in my jaw muscles. In Larry’s vocabulary, “We have to,” always meant “Rosie, you have to.”
            “All we ever do is talk about it, Larry. We make a plan and think we’re on solid ground, then something happens to throw it off balance and things get worse. I’m tired of feeling like a failure. And, besides . . . it’s Tuesday. I always go to the club on Tuesday.”
            He nodded his head in the direction of our daughter’s bedroom. A tacky peel-and-stick banner stuck off-center on the door announcing KITTY’S ROOM in curvy pastel letters. Above it perched an update—a stylized scrawl in red magic marker on a weathered piece of wood plank. It read, KAT’S KRADLE.
“We’ve got to talk about this.” Now his voice sounded both confused and helpless, as if everything I had said was in some foreign language he didn’t understand.  
            I grabbed the car keys and struggled to keep from breaking into a run. “They said she’ll sleep most of the day.” The words flew over my shoulder and echoed back down the hall. “You’re her father. You’ll be fine.” I hit the garage door opener and in seconds had the engine running and the car in reverse, clearing the opening with only inches to spare.
Rolling out of the driveway, I strapped on the seat belt and looked up to see him standing at the door. He managed a brave smile and a feeble wave, and just as the captain called to the man on deck, I called to Larry, “I’ll be back in a few hours. I promise.”
The car was hot as hell inside but it felt like heaven to be out of that house and away from the tip-toeing down the hall and around the subject. I thought back to when Katherine was twelve, and snubbed at a school dance by the class heartthrob. What little self-confidence she possessed evaporated instantly. She came home not dented but broken, climbing into my lap as fragile as when she was an infant. I rocked her through this and other bouts of sadness, her resilience fraying with each episode. I poured soft words of comfort into her ear, wondering how much of her troubles were my fault. Now the only whispered conversations were with doctors as they gazed at us over thick files of test results and sized us up as parents, tactfully explaining the array of options for our daughter.
I cranked up the smooth jazz station, and ran at the top edge of the speed limit through our subdivision. This wasn’t a day to stop for curbside updates and loaded questions.“Is your Katherine feeling okay? We didn’t see her all weekend.”
I was out of believable answers. I faked a smile, and dug my thumb and palm into the high-noon position on the steering wheel while my fingers gave the half-handed wave to passing neighbors that said, “Everything’s normal at our house.”
The club parking lot was full, so I drove around back and made my entrance through a side door. I had intentionally overdressed for the occasion. Partially because I needed to feel pretty, but also because I wanted to look like I’d already had a full day and this was just another stop. Pink silk shirt and white slacks—to show off my tan and slim hips. Heeled Manolo sandals and a fabulous new Gucci bag—to show off that I could afford them. I walked into the club, nodded to the bartender for the usual, and took my seat. The other players were already there. Without much more than a quick hello around the table, the dealer started to shuffle and the bridge game began.
I gathered the cards as they landed in front of me, sipping a diet Coke that was liberally laced with rum. The cards were smooth to the touch—a virgin deck. They slid into the curve of my hand, releasing a delicious whiff of chemical residue from the fresh plastic coating. I ran my finger around the perfect right-angle edge and tucked the last card in place. The rum started to kick in. I drew a deep breath, and melted into the chair.
I put the suits in order. Not the traditional order of spades to diamonds so many players use. That would give my hand away. Instead I put my strongest suit on the left and trailed down to the weakest. It was a good hand and I knew exactly what cards I needed from my partner to make it a winner.
The bidding started and my mind got caught up in the strategy. I eased into a soothing paradise of aces and grand slams where everything is logical. No one saying, “What now, Rosie? What’s next Rosie?” In this world you read the cards, communicate with your partner in a universally understood bidding language, and play it out. There is a predetermined list of maneuvers for each given hand and with practice you can become perfect at choosing and executing the winning outcome.
I answered my partner’s bid, communicating a strength in spades and a singleton heart. While I waited for her reply, my ears picked up on a distant hubbub behind the flapping double doors that led to the kitchen. My thoughts derailed. I heard again the background sounds of the campus clinic and the antiseptic voice of the emergency room nurse when she called in the middle of the night to confirm I was Katherine Cameron’s mother, blurting out the dreaded word that took my daughter out of the category of classic homesick freshman and placed her in a league with the disturbed and inconsolable.
The word reverberated in my head, and attempts to ignore it resulted in a throbbing pain that pulsed through my temple in time with my heartbeat. I had no choice but to give in. I mumbled under my breath and hoped the other players would think I was concentrating. I said the word—released it into the air, and willed it to a place in the corner where I could observe it from a distance. It was an ugly little word that was now a fact of life. It couldn’t be erased and there was no list of maneuvers that could guarantee it wouldn’t happen again. With parenthood there is no “practice makes perfect.” I said the word once more, sounding out the three syllables, knowing I’d have to use it in a sentence someday because “tried to take her own life” wouldn’t always fit.
I closed my eyes, but the seven letters scrolled in neon green across the black space behind my eyelids. “Okay, you win,” I told it. “But, can I at least have this afternoon? I need to be good at something, even if it’s only for a few hours.”

 
 
 

 The judge for the Summer Contest is Mitchell Graham.
Born in New York City, Mitch attended college at Ohio State University on a fencing scholarship and later went on to earn a law degree. After practicing for twenty years he went back to school to study Neuropsychology.  He has represented the United States in international fencing competitions and has won or placed in the finals of over 83 separate tournaments.
He is also, a novelist. His fantasy trilogy, The Fifth Ring, The Emerald Cavern and The Ancient Legacy continue to garner readers of all ages and have recently sparked the interest of none other than Steven Spielberg. His mystery series which opens with Majestic Descending, introduces street-wise ex-detective John Delaney and attorney Katherine Adams. This fast paced thriller is currently in film production, with two other books to follow. Read more about Mitch at his website and buy his books here.