landscapes

Before Jack's mother was dead, she was crazy. And everyone knew. She never came out of the apartment, and she didn't like Jack to go out either. Not even to school. But they made her send him. She didn't like that, so she told Jack he was sick a lot. He didn't feel sick, but she felt his head and pronounced, Fever, putting him back to bed for the day. Sometimes, she and Jack would sit in the closet for hours. It would get unbearably hot and quiet, but then she would sing sweetly and he would fall asleep.

On his way home from school one day, Jack stopped on the corner to shoot marbles with some boys. After only a few minutes, his mother stuck her head out the window and called for him to come on home. Her voice was shrill and frantic. Jack reluctantly started home. Hey, one of the boys called, What d'ya do in the house with your mother all day? Sit in the closet and sing, he answered. The entire block shook with laughter. They called him Mama's Boy for months. He learned not to talk about his mother after that.

That wasn't the only thing they did together. On hot days when his mother was feeling brave, they would climb out onto the fire escape and look out at the city. She would point out a stranger on the street, and together they would make out a life for the person. She once pointed to a bum picking garbage out of the gutter, and said he was researching a movie role. In real life, she said, he lived in a big mansion and slept in a bed with clean sheets. His closets were overflowing with warm clothes, and he had so much food he couldn't close his cabinets. She could always do that for him. Take something sad and turn it around to make it all right.

When his mother was feeling especially bad, she would take out an old magazine that had beautiful pictures of foreign places they had never even heard of. She would talk herself and Jack into the photos, so that he could feel desert sand under his shoes or Arctic winds across his face.

He sat on the fire escape holding the magazine, thinking of her. The sorrowful sound of a train whistled in the distance. Jack looked up at the sun setting behind the buildings. On the street below, a group of boys played stickball. He watched as one boy after another cracked the ball around the neighborhood. Old men huddled on folding chairs against the buildings, reading newspapers and smoking pipes. Nosy women with kerchiefs holding back their hair hung out of windows, their elbows resting on pillows. They harassed the boys and warned them against smashing any windows. Giggly girls sat on stoops, braiding each others' hair and whispering secrets.

There was a commotion down on the street. The boys ran to the corner and pointed, laughing and shoving one another. Jack smiled and leaned over the railing, anxious to see what was causing such a stir. His face fell when he saw what the boys were laughing at. He backed up against the building as a shadow of anger passed over his face.

A familiar figure came stumbling down the sidewalk. Jack could hear him singing to himself. The boys jeered while the girls pinched their noses as he passed by. The adults shook their heads in disgust. Eww, one of the girls moaned, he peed on himself! A dark wet spot spread down the man's pant legs, but he didn't seem to notice. Jack felt a tightening in his stomach. He climbed in through the window and shut it behind him.

Within seconds, there was a pounding on Jack's door. He stood still and stared at the door, thinking that if he stayed quiet the moment would just pass him by. But the pounding was ceaseless, and he knew there was no way to avoid it.

"Come on Jack. Open up." Mrs. Riggone continued her patterned pounding: three long knocks, two short knocks, pause.

"He's down there again. On the corner." Now the knocks became more forceful and monotonous: knock knock knock knock knock, pause, knock knock knock knock knock, pause. He walked to the door and swung it open. Mrs. Riggone's chubby fist was hanging in the air. Sweat beads descended down her flushed face. Her mouth was open and her breathing was ragged. In her rush to bring him bad news, she had failed to button the middle two buttons of her house dress, and he was afraid to look at the gaping space. He focused instead on her crooked wig.

"Well?" she huffed. "Go get him before the police do."

Jack stared down at his sneakers and squeezed past Mrs. Riggone, shutting the door behind him. He took his time walking down the three flights of stairs, one foot at a time. He counted each step, finding that it calmed him. By the time he reached 72, he was at the front door.

Jack stood out on the stoop and shielded his eyes from the setting sun. The summer heat hung heavily in the air. He scanned his surroundings for the man, and saw him folded up on the ground. Old women looked at him pityingly but didn't say a word. Kids laughed and shouted and pointed. Jack walked determinedly to the crumpled heap, ignoring everyone and everything around him.

"Walter. Get up." Jack had never called his father Dad, or even Pop. It had always been Walter. His father seemed to get a kick out of it. Jack liked it better that way too. It made it easier for him to pretend that this was just some man down on his luck that he helped out now and again.

Jack struggled to lift Walter off of the street. He was rail-thin but heavy and clumsy with drink. Walter was hunched over and pitching to the left. It took all of Jack's strength to keep them both on their feet and out of the gutter.

"That's my boy!" Walter exclaimed, clapping Jack roughly on the back. Jack lugged Walter's lanky frame back to the building. He held tightly to Walter's waist with one hand and clung to the railing with the other, hoisting his father up the steps, one at a time. Walter saluted the old men and blew kisses to the old ladies like a soldier home from war. The ladies did their best to look insulted and uninterested, but enjoyed this little bit of excitement breaking up their day.

Jack sweated as he pushed and pulled and shoved his father up the steps. Walter rested heavily on Jack and seemed to fall asleep on his shoulder more than once. Jack jerked his shoulder and Walter awoke, muttering incomprehensibly.

When they finally reached the landing, Mrs. Riggone was standing in front of their door like a warden. Her fists had disappeared into the fat of her hips, and her tiny eyes scolded them. Walter found this hysterical, pointing and laughing at her.

"Oh, Mrs. Riggone! Ah ha ha ha ha ha! Oink oink, my dear." The floorboards shook as she stampeded back to her apartment and slammed the door behind her. Jack laughed begrudgingly, and Walter kissed him sloppily on the side of his head.

By the time Jack was able to push his father through the apartment door, Walter was barely conscious. He stunk of beer and sweat and piss. Jack leaned Walter up against the wall and shut the door. He tried to walk away but Walter began to slide down the wall. Jack grabbed him in time and dragged a chair over to Walter. He spread a newspaper out on the seat before plopping Walter down on top of it.

With Walter barely conscious, Jack walked into the bathroom and started a bath. He rested on the side of the tub and dipped his hands into the warm water. It felt clean and soothing. Jack closed his eyes and dreamed himself into a dark green ocean. He was surrounded by sun and fish and wind and waves. There were no people around for miles. It felt like heaven.

A heavy thud smacked Jack out of his reverie. He ran out and found Walter on the floor, snoring loudly. Jack stared vacantly at Walter. He pulled off Walter's shoes and socks, then his damp pants and underwear. He unbuttoned his shirt and was thankful Walter was not wearing an undershirt.

Walter looked so white and helpless laying naked on the floor. Jack remembered a bird with a broken wing that his mother had nursed back to health. She had had a soft spot for helpless creatures. She even fed the mouse that lived in the linen closet. He wished she were here now.

"Walter. You're too heavy. Stand up." Jack poked Walter in the gut and tried rolling him from side to side, but he wouldn't budge. He went back to the bathroom and cupped water in his hands. He dumped the water onto Walter's face, but Walter barely stirred. In desperation, Jack kneeled at Walter's feet and tickled them. He didn't want to. This felt like a game and he didn't wasn't up to playing. But it was the only sure way to wake Walter from his drunken slumber.

"Okay! Okay! Okay! I give!" Walter giggled like a child and sat bolt upright. Jack bent behind Walter and helped him to his feet. Walter draped himself over Jack, and Jack backed away. He was embarrassed to have his naked father hanging all over him.

The two stumbled into the bathroom and Walter sat down heavily in the tub, water splashing all over the bathroom floor. Jack positioned Walter's head and arms over the side of the tub, afraid that he might slip under the water and drown. Walter patted Jack's face and smiled with his eyes closed.

Jack walked out of the bathroom and kept the door open a crack. He needed to keep his ears on Walter at all times. He wasn't a mean drunk, but he was a clumsy one. When Jack was young, Walter had crawled home drunk one night and fell asleep on the couch with a lit cigarette in his mouth. Jack awoke to his mother's screams and watched her douse Walter with water as flames ate his chest. Walter needed to be treated for his burns. His mother had to go to the nervous hospital to get well. Jack had had to spend two weeks sleeping on Mrs. Riggone's couch. He didn't like to remember that time.

Jack stared at Walter's pile of pissy clothes on the floor. He looked at the bathroom door before sticking his hand in Walter's pant pocket. He produced a wad of crumpled bills, mostly tens and fives, and jammed them into his pocket.

Jack carried Walter's clothes into the bathroom and deposited them into the hamper. Walter was asleep in the tub, his head dangling over the side and his mouth gaping wide open. Jack stared at Walter, wanting to be out of that bathroom and out of that apartment. He wanted to be alone.

Jack bent down and opened the drain in the tub. The water gurgled out of the tub but Walter was unmoved. Jack draped two towels over Walter and gingerly tucked a third towel under his head. It would be safer to leave him there for the night. Jack closed the bathroom door behind him without looking back.

He walked over and opened the window. A cool breeze blew the curtains into the room. He climbed out onto the fire escape and sat there, staring down at the street. Most of the kids had been called in to dinner. The old ladies had left their perches. A few men had gathered around a card table and were playing dominoes. Warm lights glowed behind curtains. The sun had dipped behind the buildings.

Jack picked up the magazine he had abandoned earlier. He flipped to his favorite page. A large dark lake was ringed with tall green trees. The blue sky and white clouds reflected in the lake, producing two skies. An empty rowboat floated in the middle of the lake.

Jack had memorized this picture long ago. He closed his eyes and pictured himself in that boat. He imagined the water lapping gently against its side, rocking him back and forth. He breathed in the stillness.

Continue reading...

a cute and fuzzy heartwarming story

written by my almost-12-year-old niece Riz

As i walked in i was so happy to be at my aunt's and uncle's. for some strange reason i forgot why things always got a little bad when i visited...my memory was a little fuzzy after having so many things happen in this awesome summer. i looked around and everything looked nice everything looked great for me to stay there the next three days, i was about to joyfully walk to go put my bag down when something strange...something...suspicious...something i now remembered now reader you will probably be mad at me for putting all these details for something you think is little but it...she is not, she is their evil CAT...their cat who in the middle of the night decided to play patty-cake with my eye.that cat has new VERY tricky methods usually when she looks at me in pounce mode she attacks, but now she attacks when she just sits there and looks cute and innocent. she's forgotten me in about in six months, but i still didn't think she would be too nice when i did something you never attempt on this cat. i held out my hand for that "cute", "innocent" cat to sniff it and she attacked! my uncle said people think all cats are nice and friendly, but this cat is not one of those nice and friendly cats. later that day we went to mars...in new york. there we played plenty of arcade games and if i do say so myself i whipped his butt in air hockey. after i had some of the worst food ever (and an alien scared my uncle...it was awesome.)when we came back to their house my aunt was there and we played operation and it was awesome...partially because it freaked out the cat when ever it buzzed. Then we went out for dinner...much better than the Mars dinner. After, we went back and I whipped some more butts in Operation. It’s when we played Battleship that that cute, funny, innocent little monster attacked me, scratched me, hissed at me and bit at me! The rest of the night I was scared of her. She followed me into the bathroom two times and it was a little hard to get away from her...on the toilet! Today she gives me the stalking eyes......dun dun dun!

Continue reading...

the wedding gift

George squinted his eyes against the bright summer sun. As he lowered the sun visor, a fistful of unpaid parking tickets landed in his lap. He crumpled them under his seat without looking. Scanning the streets for a parking spot, he took a nip out of the can cradled in his lap.

He spotted a questionably legal spot down the block from the bank. The long Buick eased into the spot nose first. He sat in the car, looking left and right before tilting his head back and finishing off the can. He turned off the ignition and shoved the empty can into a bag with the others.

The streets were busy with people rushing home to their Friday nights. He sat and watched them, wondering who and what waited for them at home. His reflection filled the rearview mirror. He brushed a few stray hairs into place and stepped out of the car, tucking his thin flannel shirt into his jeans.

He placed his feet deliberately onto the pavement, one foot in front of the other. His steps felt clumsy. Making his way to the bank, he popped a mint into his mouth and cleared his throat. A stubborn dryness had settled in, making his tongue thick and furry.

It took both of his hands to open the heavy pane glass door. The cool air of the bank made the hair on his arms stand up. He shuddered against the chill while his eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lights.

Standing alone at the long counter, he inspected the pens chained to the marble top. His moist fingertips stuck to the withdrawal slip. He chose a pen and studied the slip, then looked around the bank for help. His lips moved as if words were waiting, but he remained silent. The pen moved repeatedly over the slip without touching it. He stared at the ceiling for an answer, biting his lip and blinking his eyes. With a sudden jerk, he bent his head low to the slip and scribbled across it. He walked towards the teller and stopped mid-stride, staring uncertainly at the slip. Then with a sudden burst, he rushed the last few feet to the teller.

The teller's face was puckered as if she were sucking on a straw. She did not look up as he waited, grinning. He finally slid the slip under the glass, and she snatched it up without looking at him. The computer keyboard tap tapped under her long nails as she stared at the screen.

"How would you like this?"

"Um, hundreds I guess?" She nodded at the screen while he shifted his weight. He felt suddenly sheepish and wished he were back out on the street.

"I've never taken out this much cash at once. Don't really know what it feels like".

She nodded again, counting out hundred dollar bills. He continued to grin, feeling the need to talk, to communicate, to connect.

"It's for my oldest daughter. She's getting married tomorrow." She smiled without meaning it.

"800, 900, 1,000. Congratulations." She still would not meet his gaze.

"Yeah. Wish it could be more. But I still got two more at home." She looked at him for the first time. Her eyes were kind.

"I'm sure it's fine." She slipped the money into an envelope and slid it to George. He took the envelope and waved it at her.

"Yeah. Well. Thanks." He tucked the envelope into his left breast pocket and headed out of the bank.

Out on the sidewalk, his muscles relaxed and he breathed out all of his nerves. His hand kept worrying the envelope in his pocket. He laid his palm flat against it, holding it there a moment like a boy about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

He winced against the honks and shouts around him. The streets were thick with people and cars. His head swam and his hands shook. As he walked towards the car, he spotted a tiny dive bar and decided to sit down and wait out the traffic some.

The darkness of the bar welcomed him home like a hug. The air was heavy with sleep. It relaxed him and eased the tension in his chest, as if the first cold drink were already slipping past his lips.

It looked as though no one had walked into, or out of, the bar in at least a decade. Shadowy characters were settled into booths, featureless and silent. A few were perched around the bar like religious idols glued to a dashboard.

The first drink eased the tremors of his hands. The bar felt cool and clean under his clammy palms. The second drink got him to looking around the bar. The faces all started to look familiar and inviting. The third drink made him ache with longing to talk. He was by nature a quiet and sullen man. But so much was happening around him. Words swelled inside of him until he couldn't hold them in any longer.

He talked and drank. With each sip the words slid out with greater ease. He talked about his daughter and her wedding tomorrow. How she was marrying a good man, a professor, who would never have to come home and clean the grease out from under his nails. He bragged about her job as a physician's assistant. He wasn't exactly sure what that was. He knew it was bigger than a nurse but not quite a doctor. She was always on him about his diet and vitamins, and yes, his drinking. But it was all done in love. He was proud that she knew all the right things to tell him, even if he didn't quite follow her advice.

He became louder and more emphatic. Bar stools scraped out of his reach as he began to slap shoulders around him. At some point, his glass stopped being refilled. He sighed and slumped down in the stool. He conceded that he had better get some rest for the big day. He pounded on the pocket that was bulging with the bank envelope.

"Got something important here to give my little girl tomorrow," he boasted.

It took some doing for him to get up and off of the stool. He watched two figures make their way out of a booth and through the dark door of the bar. The sunlight had drained from the street. He didn't want to go out into the dark night. He preferred the comfort of the bar with its smells and melting ice cubes clinking against glasses. He stood wearily and waved good-bye. No one wished him well on his daughter's big day.

The sidewalk was disorienting. Sounds and smells and faces crowded his senses. He looked wearily down the block towards his car. His legs felt like lead and his vision wavered. It would be a difficult drive home.

As he struggled down the block, a beat up old Nova pulled along side him and honk honk honked. He squinted his eyes at the two men grinning and waving at him.

"Hey, buddy! Long time no see." The driver smiled at him. George looked around, confused. The passenger leaned over the driver and waved.

"What, you don't remember anyone from the old neighborhood?" They were working men, around his age. They looked like men he would have known.

"Oh, sorry. How you doin?" The passenger slid back over to his side of the car and opened the passenger door. He stood up and out of the car.

"Where you goin? Hop in. We'll give ya a lift." He hesitated, looking down the street at his car on the corner. A parking ticket was flapping against the windshield.

"Nah. Thanks. Car's at the corner." The driver leaned further out of the window.

"Say, hear your kid's gettin married. Congrats. Boy, haven't seen her since she was tall as my knee. Must be a beaut by now."

"Oh yeah," he swelled with pride. "She's a great kid. Real pretty."

"Sure would love to see a picture. Got some a my own kids in here. Come on, buddy. Get in the car so we can catch up a minute." The driver jiggled a flask in front of him. The passenger jumped in the back seat, all teeth and hair grease. George slid into the front seat and shut the door behind him.

The inside of the car smelled like a wet dog. The front and back seats were littered with newspapers and empty cigarette packs. Smoke rings reached him from the back seat. He stared hard at the driver, trying to place him and his buddy. His head swirled from the excitement, and the drinks. He took a long pull from the cool flask and immediately felt a flush rush to his face.

"So? Let's see a picture." The driver held his hand out expectantly. George twisted around to pull his wallet from his back pocket. The passenger reached forward and pounded George's shoulders heartily.

"Boy you haven't changed a bit. He looks good. Doesn't he look good?"

"Yeah, he looks great."

"See that? You look great." A brief look passed between the two men. George felt an uncomfortable knot in his chest. The air in the car was close. Sweat burned his eyes. He wanted to gulp fresh air and fill his lungs.

He finally found his wallet and pulled out a picture of his wife and kids. The two men poured over it, whistling and sucking in air through their teeth.

"Some good lookin kids ya got there."

"Oh sure, the kids are great. But that wife is somethin else, huh? You sure did good, buddy. Good wife, good life. Huh?" The two men chuckled and shoved his shoulder playfully. He began to feel dizzy. Their words overlapped and buzzed in his ears. The driver fished around for a picture of his kids, flailing papers and garbage around the car. While the driver rifled through the glove compartment, the passenger patted George's chest roughly. A wave of nausea wrenched his stomach. The city lights seemed too bright.

"I can't seem to find them pictures anywhere."

"Well look at the mess in this car. It's a wonder you found the steerin wheel!"

"Yeah well, you don't seem to mind when I'm drivin your lazy ass around. Sorry about all this."

"It's all right." George was swimming in the garbage being thrown around the car. He was ready to go.

"Hey, we gotta get goin. Ya know we got that thing..." the passenger fidgeted in the back seat.

"Yeah. I sure am sorry about this, buddy. Great seein ya and all." The driver leaned across him and opened the passenger door. Hands again patted his shoulders and chest as he scooted out of the car.

"Nice seein ya, pal."

"Uh, yeah. You too." George stood on the sidewalk and bent down into the open window, shaking the rough hands of both men. He tripped on the curb as the Nova bolted away, disappearing into traffic.

George struggled to stand upright and stared after the car in a daze. The dense night air swirled around him and he shook his head hard, trying to knock the drink out of him. Stumbling towards the car, his right hand shot up to his left breast pocket. A chill like a knife sliced through him. His rubber legs left him and he sat heavily on the curb. It was gone.

He pictured their faces, worn with work like his. Their hands were calloused and blistered, familiar. He watched their bent backs leaving the bar moments before he had. Right now, they were headed to another dive bar, where they would drink his daughter's gift down. He stared at a pot hole and hoped it would open up and swallow him whole.

The next morning, five minutes before the bank closed, he stood before the same sour-faced teller. He handed her his account number and asked for a balance.

"Your remaining balance is $317.47." He stood motionless in front of her. Numbers danced in his head. He tried hard to make sense of them.

"Is that all?" she asked impatiently.

"Yes. No." His lips worked silently as he scanned the ceiling.

"How else can I help you?"

"Um, you know, my daughter? Well I wanna give her a few bucks more, you know, for the wedding."

"Oh," she seemed to perk up some at that. "Of course. How much would you like to withdraw?"

He considered this for a moment more.

"Um, 200. No. No. 250. 250 please." She jotted figures onto a slip and passed it to him.

"Sign here please." The pen hovered over the paper. Sweat slid off his chin and onto his hand. He wiped his forehead with an open palm, then signed the slip with his eyes closed.

"Yeah. She's a good kid, ya know? She deserves it." He nodded decisively and passed the slip back. "She deserves it."

"I'm sure she does," the teller responded while counting out fifty dollar bills.

He was walking Tiny through the park and there she was. Tiny yanked on his chain and tugged him over to her. She had just gotten back from her honeymoon. They sat down on a bench in the shade. Tiny looked up at her, beating his tail against the grass. She could do no wrong in Tiny's eyes. When she was a little girl, she had looked at him that way. She would wrap her little arms around his neck and pat his back. She never cared where he was or why he was gone so long. She was just glad that he was back.

He hadn't intended to tell her. It was the sunburn that did it. It made her look so hurt and vulnerable. He thought of all the ways he couldn't protect her in the world, and all of the ways he had hurt her. He wanted to make it all right for her.

They each stared straight ahead as he told her the story. Tiny licked her hand the entire time. He was glad the dog was there to comfort her. His lips twitched as he spoke. When he finished, her eyes fell on him for the first time. He felt the weight of a can of Bud in his pocket and wanted more than anything to hear the hiss of the can popping open.

"So that's why it wasn't more. It shoulda been. But that's what happened."

He could tell she was trying to believe him. She wanted to so much. Her face ached with the strain of it. He wanted to know the thoughts she was thinking but he was afraid. Something passed over her face. He braced for it as if waiting for a clap of thunder after a lightning strike. But it passed like a cloud. He watched her fold her thoughts up neatly and tuck them away in a suitcase. He hated to think of her lugging it around.

"Don't worry about the money. I'm just glad you're okay." Her voice was dry sand paper scraping against his heart. She stood wearily, burying her face in Tiny's neck and making kissing sounds.

"You know your old man. Tough as nails." He puffed out his meager chest but she didn't smile. Her eyes were too tired.

"Gotta go. See ya later, Dad." She walked away with a weak wave. She didn't even remind him to take his vitamins or lay off the red meat.

Leaves pattered to the ground around him. He fished the can of beer out of his pocket and popped the top open. He took a long swig from the can and let Tiny lick the sweat from it. He sat and thought of ways he could make it up to her.

Continue reading...

mi lovely

It is difficult for Maria to hold her head up. The rheumatoid arthritis has left her body a twisted piece of metal after a tornado. Her spine is a knobby tree trunk; her thumbs are bent backwards at the knuckle. Deep pouches have set in under her eyes. Purple bruises mask her pale skin. An oversized house coat hangs limply from her slight frame, her sagging breasts sitting on her lap. Her smile is muted.

In portraits hanging from her walls, Maria is stunning. Lithe legs support curvaceous hips. Her neck is graceful and long. Bright eyes shine with a playful secret. Her skin is ivory, iridescent against wavy black locks laying across her shoulders. A giggle is about to escape her full red lips.

Maria is always alone when I visit her in the mornings. Although she speaks often of her husband Juan, I had never met him before today. He takes long walks in the mornings, strolling the avenue and stopping for an occasional game of dominoes. On the way home, he shops for groceries. He will only use fresh meats and fruits and vegetables to cook for Maria.

I heard him before I saw him. The front door clicked and a sweet Spanish song reached us in the living room. I watched Maria's face soften as Juan walked into the room. He saw only Maria. The resemblance of young Juan hanging on the walls to old Juan here in person was striking. His posture was strong and confident. Gray strands had crept in among his thick black hair, but his face was youthful and tender. His eyes danced as they swept over Maria. He bent down and stroked her face softly, kissing her full on the lips.

"Mi lovely," he whispered.

I wanted to sit on that couch and watch them all day. Maria laughed bashfully and looked over at me. It was then that Juan noticed I was in the room. I stood and shook his hand, and we spoke briefly. He was gracious and did not balk at my halting, awkward Spanish. After a moment he excused himself, but not before kissing Maria on the crown of her head. She seemed to sit taller and more relaxed in his presence.

“You see what he call me?” she blushed.

“Mi lovely?”

“Si. Mi lovely.”

Maria had come to West New York from Cuba when she was 25. Her married sister Olga was already living here. Maria moved in with Olga and her husband Oscar. Maria spoke no English when she first arrived. She learned the language by speaking to American ladies in the factory where she sewed buttons ten hours a day. The work was monotonous and slow. The gossipy chatter helped the hours pass quickly.

Maria loved to walk the avenue with her sister. They stopped in every shop and spoke to every American, hoping to perfect their new language. Maria was beautiful. Men with and without wives spoke to her sweetly on the streets. She was not interested, however. There were too many new things to see in this strange country, and she wanted to take it all in. She was in love with the tall buildings of the New York skyline. At night, she walked by the water and dreamed of all the lives being lived among the lights.

On Saturday nights, Oscar and Olga took Maria to Manhattan, where they would find small clubs and dance the dances of home. It was a relief to be in a place with her own people speaking in an easy tongue. Maria loved to dance, and would be on her feet the entire night. It was at a dance that Juan first saw her.

Juan had also come from Cuba recently. He worked in a factory with many other Cubans, and had difficulty learning English. He shied away from American shops and people, preferring the comfort of his own culture and language. Juan was never lonely. Even his friends had to admit that he was the best looking man around. He escorted a different girl to a dance every night, reluctant to see any girl more than once. He didn't want to give them false hope. Juan was a sworn bachelor. He could not foresee a time when he would long for a wife and a family of his own.

One night, Maria was at a dance with her girlfriend Ana. While the two girls spun in the middle of the dance floor, Juan looked on. He was taken by Maria's ease and laughter. He watched her dance all night, feeling jealous any time a man laid his hand on the small of her back. Juan did not ask her to dance that night. He watched and waited, wanting to see if the feeling in his chest was real.

"See that girl?" he asked a friend. "If she loves me, I am going to marry her."

The next week, Maria and Ana were again dancing in the middle of the floor, and Juan watched Maria from a corner. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered. Juan approached Ana as she sat out a dance. He asked Ana about her beautiful friend. Ana was taken with Juan's good looks. She had seen him at the dances before, always wanting to fall into step beside him. It angered her that Juan was only approaching her to ask about Maria. This happened often when the two friends went out. Ana wanted a boyfriend of her own. Besides, she reasoned, Maria wasn't interested in a boyfriend.

"Maria?" she shrugged. "Oh. She's married. Her husband is still in Cuba."

Juan thanked Ana for the information, oblivious to Ana's rapidly blinking eyes. He went back to his friends, dejected. When Ana rejoined her friend, Maria looked questioningly at Ana.

"Who is that man you were talking to?"

"No one." Ana responded casually.

"He's very good-looking. What is his name?"

"Juan. He's married. His wife and children are still in Cuba."

Maria felt an unfamiliar flutter in her heart as she looked at Juan. Thinking of his wife and children at home, she forced his image out of her head.

During the quiet moments at the factory, Juan's face floated back to Maria. She thought of his broad shoulders and his graceful steps on the dance floor. He smiled like a little boy causing innocent trouble. She thought she saw a promise in his eye, but it angered her to think of him out at a dance with a wife and babies at home. That was reason enough to wipe him out of her mind. But she couldn't.

Ana had found herself a boyfriend and wasn't around to go dancing. After a week of Maria pouting, Olga decided that she and Oscar would take her little sister out for some cheering up. They headed to a dance in Manhattan. Maria wasn't in the mood for fun, and sat on the sidelines. While watching couples twirling on the dance floor, she saw Ana smiling up into the face of her dance partner. Maria jumped to her feet to wave at her old friend, but stopped cold when the man spun Ana around. It was Juan.

Maria had to run out into the cool night air to catch her breath. How could Ana be dating a married man? Didn't she think of his wife and children at home? She had been so stupid to have wasted time picturing Juan's face these past weeks. He was nothing but a cheat and a liar. She was angry for letting herself feel something, and disappointed in both Ana and Juan. She began to cry, her face hot and burning. She cried even harder because she didn't understand why she was crying. She left the dance and went home alone.

Later that night, Olga found her sister crying in her room. At first Olga was angry that Maria had left the dance alone. When she saw how upset her sister was, she became worried.

"Why are you crying?" Olga asked, stroking Maria's hair.

"I don't know. He is married and Ana was dancing with him and I don't know why I ever felt anything for him."

"Who’s married?"

Maria continued to sob out the story. Olga's face was at first stern and then softened into a knowing smile. She patted Maria's arm soothingly.

"Listen. Your friend is not your friend at all. I know that man Juan. He is not married. Far from it. I have seen him looking at you many times. Oscar knows him from the factory. Let me get you his number. You call him. He doesn't love Ana. Call him and see."

Maria's chest filled with hope. She forgot how her friend had lied to her and concentrated on Juan's eyes. She wanted to know what they had to tell her. She sat by the phone all night, staring at Juan's number. She picked up the phone and put it back down. She burrowed under the covers then kicked the covers off. She switched the light off and right back on. She wanted to hear his voice, and her voice together on the line. She was so scared the voice would be hollow and unfamiliar. Then she would know the flutter in her chest was a lie.

Finally, Maria dialed the number at three o'clock in the morning. She had no concept of time. It felt like she had been waiting to make this call forever, but she only just now realized it. His sleepy voice sounded into the phone.

"Hola?"

"Hola, Juan?"

There was a long silence. Maria wondered if he could hear her heart pounding over the phone line.

"Mi lovely?" he asked.

"This is Maria."

She waited, but the line went dead. She hung up the phone in confusion. Had he mistaken her for someone else? Was there something wrong with the phone line? Should she call him again?

Maria sat staring at the phone, uncertain of what to do. A sharp buzz sounded throughout the apartment, shaking Maria out of her seat. She realized it was the doorbell and went to the window. Oscar and Olga called hazily from the bedroom, but Maria told them to go back to sleep. Maria opened the window and looked down at the front door. Juan was looking up at her, standing in his pajamas and work boots. He was smiling and had his arms spread open. Maria laughed and shut the window. She ran down the steps and onto the sidewalk in her nightgown.

Maria and Juan stared at each other. Both were now shy in front of one another. Maria looked down at her bare feet, embarrassed. Juan opened and closed his mouth several times, looking for the words he wanted to say.

"Mi lovely," he said, as he had over the phone.

"Why do you call me that?" Maria asked in Spanish.

Juan explained that he had heard the word "lovely" many times in English, and he always thought it was a beautiful word, though he was unsure of its meaning. When he first saw her at the dance, he knew that the word described her. For weeks, he had been thinking of her, even though Ana had told him she was married. At that, Maria laughed and told him that Ana had said the same about him.

The two sat on Maria's stoop until the sun came up. Maria felt warm and comfortable sitting next to Juan. Juan was picturing their babies with her black hair and his green eyes. He had found the woman that made him want to be a husband. He hummed a tune in her ear and spun her around on the sidewalk.

Juan and Maria have been married for 48 years. They have three daughters and seven grandchildren. Maria can no longer dance, but Juan still sings sweet Spanish songs to her every day.

"That was his first English word. Lovely. Not "hello" or "please". Every time he calls me "mi lovely" I feel happy in my heart." Maria whispered to me before I left.

I said good-bye to Juan as he was putting lunch on the table. The door shut behind me, and his voice rose up in a song. I heard Maria giggling, and I pictured them dancing on the sidewalk in their pajamas.

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sheep man

The doorbell rang. I rushed to put away the stuffed animals I had been playing with. At 11, I was afraid my cousin Patty would think me too old for dolls. I wasn't. Arranging them around me in bed, I would talk to each of them, making sure no one felt neglected. At night, they encircled me, keeping me safe from the closet monster.

"Noreen, come see your cousin Patty," my mom called.

I rushed out of my bedroom and into the hall. Uncle Charlie and Patty were standing in the open door with my parents. I felt suddenly shy.

"Hiya kid," Uncle Charlie shucked me roughly on the back.

"Hi Uncle Charlie."

"Say hi to your cousin Patty." my mom pushed me forward.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"You two haven't seen each other in a few years, huh?" Uncle Charlie said, bending down to me.

"Guess not," I shrugged.

"Wanna beer, brother?" my dad asked.

"Lead the way."

"Take your cousin outside Noreen. See if anyone's around to play," my mom instructed.

My parents and Uncle Charlie walked towards the kitchen, leaving us alone. I smiled at Patty, who looked bored. She was only a year older than me, but acted like she was stuck babysitting me or something. I led her out of the apartment and into the hot summer sun.

We stood on the stoop and surveyed the street. The neighborhood was empty. Most of my friends were gone for the weekend, down the shore or at grandparents' houses with pools. I looked up and down the block and shrugged at Patty.

"Guess nobody's around." I looked apologetically at Patty. She rolled her eyes at me. We sat on the stoop, chins in hands.

"Looks boring here," she said staring at the empty street.

"Sometimes," I agreed.

Patty balanced on the edge of the top step, walking back and forth with her arms stretched out.

"So what's to do?"

"We could go to the little league field." I suggested.

"Nah." Patty slid down the railing.

"Play catch?"

"Uh uh."

"Ride bikes?"

"Nope."

I was out of ideas. We again sat on the stoop with our chins in our hands, looking up and down the block for excitement. Patty began jumping on the stairs.

"Got a roller rink?" she asked hopefully.

"Uh uh."

"Bowling?"

"No."

"Arcade?"

"Yeah! Mr. Bigs," I said, relieved that we had something in town.

"Excellent! Let's go." Patty ran down the stoop and opened the gate. I sat unmoving, looking down at her.

"Can't." Patty trudged back up the steps towards me.

"Whaddya mean we can't?" She was now exasperated with me.

"My mom won't let me. She says people do drugs there."

"Big woop!" Patty hooted. I shrugged sorrowfully. Patty plopped back down next to me, defeated.

"You know, my brother does drugs," Patty offered proudly.

"I know."

"How do you know?" Patty stood over me angrily.

"Heard my parents talking."

"Oh." Patty answered, deflated.

We killed some time jumping up and down the stairs. Patty would jump up the steps, while I would jump down the steps. Then we would switch directions. I scanned the city in my head, looking for something impressive to do.

"I know! We can go see Sheep Man!"
Patty looked down her nose at me, mildly interested. "It's this guy...." I began.

My friends and I had discovered Sheep Man while walking home from school one day. We heard him before we saw him. There was a high-pitched noise that could best be described as a bleat. We stopped talking and tilted our heads, straining to make out the noise. Walking slowly down the sidewalk, we followed the repetitive sound, looking at each other, puzzled.

As we approached a beautiful brownstone, the noise ceased. A dirty farm smell hit us. We pinched our noses and stared inside the gate of the house. There were flower pots in the windows and a decorative wreath on the front door. The inside of the gate, however, was littered with garbage. A filthy mattress was in the corner, piled high with crumpled newspapers. The acrid smell emanating from the pile was sharp and sour.

"Dare you to go in and sit on that," Dom shoved Henry near the gate.

"Eat my fart." Henry responded, shoving Dom back.

"Do my math and I'll do it," Joey offered Dom.

"Deal!"

Dom approached the gate and stared inside. The rest of us backed away, holding our breath out of disgust, and fear. Dom inched forward, his hand on the gate. As he began to push it open, a high-pitched screech squeaked out of the gate. We all took another step backward as Dom took a tentative step inside the gate. With both feet inside the property, he let go of the gate, which swung shut and clanged loudly behind him. At that instant, there was a sudden flurry of activity on the mattress. The newspapers exploded off of the mattress as something shot forward towards Dom.

"Bahh! Bahh!" It bleated as it charged Dom. The group of us screamed as our sneakers smacked the pavement, running away from Dom and the house. I looked back once, relieved to see that Dom had escaped and was a little bit behind our pack.

"Whatssa matter wit you kids? Got ants in the pants?" Sister Marie asked the next afternoon. We were fidgety and anxious. At lunch, it was agreed that we would take another walk to the brownstone and find out what "It" was. A mixture of curiosity and terror kept us wiggling around in our desks, watching and waiting for the clock to strike three.

There had been brave talk at lunch, but now as we approached the block, our steps dragged and our pace slowed. We talked strategy.

"The girls will cross the street and hide behind a car, observing." Tina explained. "The boys will stand in front of the house and call it out."

"Why do the boys have to call it?" Dom demanded, still shaking from his near-death experiencethe day before.

"Cause boys are faster and stronger," Tina batted her eyes at Dom, though everyone knew she was both faster and stronger than any boy in our class.

"Well how do we call it out?" Henry asked.

"Use its language. Bahh! Bahh!" I offered.

It was settled. The girls crossed the street and crouched down behind a van, in perfect view of the house. The lump was on the mattress, buried under newspaper. There was no noise, but even across the street, we had to pinch our noses against the odor. We waved the boys on, signaling that it was safe to proceed. They tried to look tough, walking on the balls of their feet with their scrawny chests puffed out, but their faces were drawn with fear.

They stood in a line in front of the gate, not daring to open it. Dom looked nervously back at us, and we urged him on. The boys opened their mouths but balked at producing any sound. Tina nudged me, and we began for the boys.

"Bahh! Bahh! Bahh!" we shouted loudly.

The boys shot us angry looks and shushed us from across the street. None of them saw the eruption from the mattress. We tried to warn them, but it was too late. The newspapers flew up into the air as a blurred figure raced towards the gate. The boys turned in time to see it staring them down. They screamed and shoved each other away from the house, running down the street. I had to force myself not to cover my eyes in order to get a good look at it.

It was not an "it", it was a "he". His clothing was raggedy and hung loosely about him. His wild curls shot forth from his head like corkscrews. A narrow, devilish goatee hung from his chin. His thin sloping nose pointed towards buck teeth, which showed from under his raised upper lip. Although he looked like a grown man, he was small and thin, with rounded shoulders and a slumbering gait. In one fluid movement he bounded over the gate towards the boys. He did not run flat out like the boys. He galloped and bleated after them, like an animal. Like a sheep!

The girls and I hid behind the van as Sheep Man chased the boys down the block. After a few moments, he came galloping back down the block, alone. He jumped the gate to the house once again, and rested on the mattress. We watched as he scratched his head and behind his ears and sniffed the air. His head shot back and forth with quick jerks. He bleated sadly a few times, then burrowed back under the mound of newspapers on the mattress.

At school the next day, the boys and girls compared notes. The boys reported that Sheep Man was not fast, but he was persistent and had chased them for two blocks. The girls had decided that he was half-man, half-sheep, and everyone agreed that Sheep Man was the most appropriate name for our new discovery. We made it part of our daily routine to walk past his house, bleating out to him. Most days, he would pounce off the mattress bahhing and galloping after us, while we ran screaming away. Some days, he would bahh meekly from his mattress and we would walk on, disappointed.

"Yeah? Then what?" Patty asked in anticipation.

"That's it. He chases us. We get away."

"That's stupid!"

I shrugged, sorry to disappoint my cousin. We continued looking up and down the empty street, looking for any signs of life.

"We have elephant boy," Patty offered quietly.

"Huh?"

"Where I live. Elephant boy."

"What's he look like? Does he have a trunk or something?" I pictured an elephant head sitting atop a boy's body. My eyes widened in disbelief as Patty again rolled her eyes at me.

"No stupid! He's this kid with this disease and his head is all weird and wrong. Like one eye's up and one's down. And he's lumpy."

"Eww!"

"Yeah. It's cool. We go over and throw peanuts at him and stuff." Patty prattled on.

"O-kay," I said, really disturbed by Patty's excitement.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"Nothin. It's just....kinda mean." I said, looking down at my shoes.

"Oh. Okay. Bahh!"

I shrugged. It didn't seem like we were being mean to Sheep Man. I kinda felt like he was our friend or something. Who else went over to his house every day and hung out with him? Okay, so maybe we didn't hang out so much as take him for a walk. Either way, I didn't see that what we did was the same as throwing peanuts at a poor deformed kid.

We sat on the stoop for a while, avoiding each other's eyes. I wondered how long Uncle Charlie planned on staying, and wondered if it would be rude to leave Patty alone on the stoop.

"So?" she finally asked.

"So, what?" I responded, still not looking at her.

"Are we gonna go see Sheep Man or what?"

We stared blankly at each other for a moment. Finally, I shrugged my shoulders and we bounded down the steps and out of the gate, walking towards Sheep Man's house.

"Bahh!" Patty shouted and shoved me into a parked car.

"Bahh!" I replied, shoving her into a garbage can.

I wondered when we would visit her house. I wouldn't throw any peanuts, but I was curious to see Elephant Boy for myself.

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