mary

She answered the ad on Craigslist for “a model.” Her friends told her what that meant – stripping, porn. She’d never been to a strip club, but she’d seen some porn. She watched some with friends, now and again. Mostly with her old boyfriend, Eddie. The one she remembered was called “Girls Do It All Night.” It was pretty gross, she’d thought, then, and still, now, kind of, but not as much. Whatever, she felt she had no choice. She had a baby and she needed money for rent. Her parents had kicked her out, She figured she would check it out and see. The place – the office – was cold and almost sterile, though she wouldn’t’ve used that word, exactly. The guy was pretty creepy. His name was Robert, or so he said. He had a gut. She’d worn a t-shirt and short cutoffs. He said she looked hot and took a few photos before asking her to strip. She wanted to cry, but didn’t. Didn’t even let him see that she wanted to. She sort of pretended that it really wasn’t her, that someone else was doing it – whatever he asked her to do. She even said a prayer, not for forgiveness, but for help. She was, after all, Catholic. Her name was Mary.

to have and to ... possess

He is most often
stunned by her beauty and
sometimes thinks of how
to describe
it and he feels failed, or, more directly,
a failure. Then he gets it:
it is
indescribable. But that seems to be a copout, too,
so he returns
to
trying, for a moment, anyway. The problem is
her essence, now and always, is ever colored by the past – her warmth,
her touch,
her kiss,
her softness,
her shiver and shudder,
her breath as she sleeps,
her eyes as she wakes,
her smile
as she focuses … on
him.
It makes him want not only to
hold her, but to
possess
her.
And he wonders if that
is
bad.

the parrot

The beach was empty, except for the winter Texans, who began arriving, even though winter still is a far bit of a piece around the corner. A few children played in the surf. A few surfers surfed in it. The seagulls stalked about the catfish beached by the so-called red tide, which wasn’t really red, but hot, all the same, what with the pepper in the air that scratched at the throat and stung the eyes. In a few hours, the municipal, beach clean-up crews would gather what was left of the catfish. He observed all of this and none of it, the scene passing before him as though it were there one moment and not, another, which is the way time works, actually. Besides, he was not so much thinking as he was wishing – wishing that the empty spot in his life weren’t so, well, empty. He knew it would take more than wishing to make that so, so, instead, he finished his walk and drove to Dirty Al’s and ate some deep fried shrimp and blackened chicken until he was full. For the moment, anyway. When he left the restaurant, he found a wild parrot perched on the hood of his car. He took it for an omen. It wasn’t.

they walk the line

There is a line
they do
not cross.
They dare not
cross. They
cannot see the line
but they know
where it is:
It bifurcates
(look it up)
and makes things
safe. Or at least
safe-er.
Sometimes, they see how close they
can come
to crossing the line without, with
a nod, or a smile or
a wink
or a whisper, which she did the
other night and he held himself back.
But
he got close.
Maybe too close.
And it wasn’t
the first
time.

soul searched

Where to be.
What to do.
How to do it.
Where.
And why.
For what reason.
And for whom.
When.
Is it possible.
Yes.
It is.
Or:
Is it?
Really.

a baby

She got the message from her sister and, now, she needed a place to sit and think, to compose herself, to figure out what she needed to say, to do, to think, really. She headed to the lounge, much as it was, down a flight of stairs, nearest the basement pharmacy. She felt her feet grow heavy, her steps, too. The father, the baby’s father, was newly listed as KIA in Afghanistan. Maybe if she’d aborted the baby the news would be no more than painful a reminder. of a thoughtless indiscretion But it wasn’t that now, anymore. It was more, bigger, different, at the very least. Her head was spinning. Whom did she need to call? Anyone? Everyone? Mary Wolnert was sitting in the lounge, nursing a large diet Coke. Behind her back, everyone called her “Hairy Mary.” She did have a bit of a moustache, not that it seemed to bother her. “You ok?” Mary asked, now. Becky nodded. It wasn’t near time, yet, but she felt something move in her belly. She’d swear to it, even though the doctors would later tell her that it wasn’t possible. “I’m a little tired,” she said. “Well, sit,” Mary said. “I can make you a cup of tea.” And she did. And Becky decided, as Mary tinkered near the sink, in her own mind, by herself, that she would call Ron’s mother and tell her that she would be a grandmother. It was the best thing she could think of, given the circumstances.

the dog

They named the dog Hazard, because in a way it – he – was. He didn‘t come home from the pound named Hazard. His first given name was Doug – Doug the Dog. But he ended up underfoot so often as a pup that he was soon re-named “Hazard.” Hazard was blackish brown with an orange nose. Yes, orange. He had floppy ears and feet that were made for a much larger dog so that he sort of “sluffed” around, as Mary would say. The best thing about Hazard was that he didn’t smell, even when he got wet. Celeste called that “a miracle.” Hazard was Harry’s dog, really. And that was OK with everyone. Harry needed that sort of companionship. He was an odd sort of kid. Loveable, but a bit distressingly so, especially to a parent, odd.

a mother

She was too sick to nurse when the baby was born, so they took the infant and placed her in an incubator. It was a good incubator, nothing wrong with it. It was a good hospital, one of the best in the area. But she still felt the guilt. She’d held all her other children. She’d pulled them close, against her soft, tender breasts and held them there, passing on her warmth, her living, her breathing to them. And as the years went on, she’d recall that, how it was, what she hadn’t done, and the fact that she’d been emotionally low, not physically – she didn’t feel the connection with this child, even while inside her – and that’s why she’d feigned her inability to the nurses. She would spend a lifetime trying to make it up, make up for something that no one else knew, or even suspected, not even her husband. Problem was, she knew she never could. And only a mother could know that.

roger

Roger is the husband. He’s not a bad husband, which means to say, he isn’t a very good one, either. If truth be told, he never was sure what it meant to be a husband. He knew how to be a boyfriend. He knew how to be a lover – at least in his own mind. But this husband deal was more confusing. His father would say, “You just work, then come home and work at it,” which was his father’s response to most questions, though not a response to a direct one about husbanding from Roger, who would never think to ask his father’s advice. It was something his dad had said once, out loud, during a movie about a married couple. He didn’t say it with malice or contempt, but more with a fatigue. But maybe that was even worse. Who would know? What Roger did know was that Celeste was different, lately, changed, somehow, and it puzzled him, because he didn’t feel at all different. He noticed it mostly in bed, at night. Not the sex. That remained a battle of wits and temperments and desires and need. Always had been. No, it was after, when they went to sleep. Celeste was further away, now, and not just literally. He didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, but when it did cross his mind it seemed especially troubling. He had no time, now, though. He was busy at work. He didn’t know it, but his world was about to implode. Not literally, but in the way far worse.

arnold

Arnold was no catch. He had a pear-shaped body that never did respond to running or weightlifting, much less a pilates class with Estelle at the “Fit Factory,” who had to tone it down after three people in her first week needed hospitalization. He had a bit of a lisp, which he hid rather well, and walked with a touch of a limp, not from an old football injury, but from getting his leg caught in a service elevator when he loaded bread trucks, downtown, while he was in high school. (Surgery should’ve been done, but wasn’t required.) Arnold wasn’t excessively bright and no one had taught him the finer points of satisfying a woman, nor had he learned on his own. But he was this: he was patient and kind and had a wonderful, calming air of gentleness about him. Not gentility, which is different, but gentle-ness. In a few hours, he would meet a woman driving a green Camry in the parking lot of the Rick’s True Value Hardware. He would fall in love with here, right there. On the spot. Like that. Like he’d sometimes imagined, if not dreamed. And he would spend the rest of his life loving her.

celeste

Her name is Celeste and she drives a green Camry. She has two children and a husband named Roger. The kids – Harry and Mary – are smack dab in the middle of middle school. They’re twins. Celeste has been fighting for weeks, now – no, more like months – this seeping sadness that her life is done, that this is it – Roger, the kids, the green Camry. She’s talked with her best friend Rosetta about this, talked the way women talk about these things, which is to say with a bluntness and honesty that would shock and appall and surprise most men, they acting just the opposite with their friends, unless three-quarters in the tank or having to confess something akin to the issue, like the greasy, unsatisfying roundabout they might’ve had with the whore-y waitress at Hooters named Jinnifer, all the while making it sound like a grand time was had by all. Rosetta told her it might be “time to move on,” but she’s seen other women who’d chosen that route and what they’d moved on to didn’t seem like much. So, worse than feeling sad and depressed, now, she felt stuck. Worse than all that? (Could it even be worse?) This afternoon, completely out of the blue, she would meet Arnold, quite innocently, because it was and because when you’re on your period the last thing, or one of the last things anyone thinks of, except, maybe, a husband, is romance. Messy sex, maybe, hormones being what they can be, but not love. And things would get even worse, because, now, Celeste would soon feel the need to make a decision, one that would affect everyone. But that would be later, today, for a start, then later this week and month. Now, she had to get their dog, Hazard, to the vet. He had worms.

prayer

The woman in the
red
Land Cruiser drives
with a rosary
hanging from the rear-view mirror,
Many do,
here. Even those
in the BMWs and
Jaguars.
The rosaries sway
and its beads rattle,
bumping into one another,
gently,
quietly.
My mother
never hung a
rosary, that I can
remember.
She gripped
it, instead, tightly, deathly tight,
especially at night, when no one else
was up,
when she prayed, often moments before dawn,
for more
penances, more chance to prove
her
heavenly worth. That’s
what she believed in:
punishment.
She
drove
an ’83
LeBaron.

i walk

I have become used
to walking along
the beach
alone.
I used to think that perhaps
someday, one day,
I would meet
her
walking the other
way, that she would
be looking for me,
while I for her and that we
would meet after our eyes
did.
Now,
I’m not so sure.
Now, I think
that that is what
a
young
romantic thinks,
not a
romantic like me
who
understands romanticism’s
tease and her truth.
So, I walk alone
and
expect nothing more.