C4 Issue 2: Fall 2011

by Chamber Four

  Troades

  By Jason Newport

  Occasionally I find it worth remembering that Euripides only won second prize for Trojan Women, losing out that year to yet another Oedipus remake by some rube named Xenocles. As if Queen Hecuba wouldn’t wipe the floor with that silly milf Jocasta. Because if anyone had a right to hang herself in despair, it was Hecuba, who endured ten years of siege only to see her beloved old husband overthrown and slain, her city and empire demolished, fifty sons all dead, a boatload of daughters raped and enslaved, and—adding insult to injury—a little grandson tossed from the ruined battlements, scraped off the rocks, and handed back for her to bury while a Greek ship waited to carry her away into bondage forever. And yet, Hecuba doesn’t string herself up, doesn’t throw herself into the sea or onto the nearest knifepoint, doesn’t gouge her own eyes out and make one of her girls lead her around, begging. Far from it. Hecuba buries little Astyanax on his heroic father’s shield and then she gets on the boat. Because she’s a leader of women. Despite all the hapless Jocasta retreads to the contrary, Hecuba’s is the truth that prevails: that most women stand more misfortune, more suffering, better than any man or god.

  That’s why, at the start of his play (known as Troades in French), Euripides shows Poseidon bawling over the broken walls of Troy, but it’s Athena who shows up and lets him know how to get even.

  I like to think she dropped in on Euripides, too, and that’s why a couple of thousand years later anyone you ask, in any language, will say, “Xenocles who?”

  Whatever Normal Means Now

  By Joyce Tomlinson

  The summer of 1967 was blistering hot. I turned 16 during a record dry spell, when every lawn in the neighborhood was brown and brittle. I sat on my front steps while Nick stood over me with his back to the street. He smoked a cigarette while I nervously twisted a string of my long hair between my fingers, trying to figure out just how late my period was. Nick was annoyed, and scared.

  “You gotta do something about that.” He said.

  “What do you want me to do?” Really, I had no idea.

  Nick had charisma like crazy. He oozed testosterone or pheromones or whatever chemical it is that makes girls break into a sweat and forget everything their mamas told them. He got into fights at Dick’s Drive-In on Friday nights and danced just like James Brown. All muscle and smooth talk. I had no defense against the guy.

  “Do something,” Nick said. He started down the sidewalk toward his house.

  Halfway down the block he turned. “I’m serious. Figure it out.”

  * * *

  The chemistry between us had been potent; we couldn’t get enough of each other. I was fifteen the first time our make-out sessions became more intense. Any conflict I had about losing my virginity was obliterated by the force of my newly awakened passion. When Nick and I were together, we rarely left his basement. It was the perfect set up for sex—stereo, sofa and bed, television and a dimmer on the lights.

  My mother had begun to notice the intensity of my relationship with Nick and decided it was time to do something about it. She and her boyfriend, Bruce, planned to take me to look at a Vancouver boarding school where she was hoping to stash me until I got over my first love affair.

  Even as I climbed in to the back seat of Bruce’s car that day I knew there was a pretty good possibility that I was pregnant. I hadn’t told anyone I was late except Nick. For the Vancouver trip, I’d decided to keep my worries to myself. I would play a girl-at-risk, girl-who-could-still-be-saved.

  The Queen Mary School was an old Victorian home with a covered porch and stained glass windows. Gardens framed the structure, and a barn with an equestrian ring stood behind it, next to a tennis court. Little gasps escaped me as we entered each classroom, where tidy wooden desks were lined up on polished hardwood floors covered with braided rugs. I never knew anything so wonderful existed.

  “Here at Queen Mary School we are a family,” the headmistress repeatedly told us.

  I wanted to move in immediately. I wanted to be part of that family, where learning was most important. I could see myself in the Queen Mary School uniform, getting straight A’s, going to college. I had the impression that my parents thought college was a waste of time, But this was a chance. All the way home, I prayed that I would discover I wasn’t pregnant after all. Maybe a miracle would happen.

  Soon after our visit to The Queen Mary’s School, my mother asked, “Could you be pregnant?”

  I couldn’t quite look at her face as I whispered yes.

  “I thought so,” she said. “My god Joyce, how could you do this to me?”

  A few weeks later I found a letter from the headmistress to my mother. Mom had written a note explaining why I wouldn’t be able to take the position I was offered at Queen Mary. It read in part,“...how unfortunate it is when young girls find themselves in such a situation. It is regrettable that Joyce will not be able to take advantage of all Queen Mary has to offer.”

  I sighed as I dropped the letter in the trash.

  * * *

  A meeting was arranged to decide what should be done. Nick’s parents sat on the edge of their chairs with their hands folded on their laps. The Sokovs were Russian immigrants and struggled with English, but their faces said they were fully aware of the situation.

  One Friday night Nick and I had joined his folks for a dance at the Russian Club where the centerpiece on every table was a giant bottle of vodka.

  “Come, have some.” His mother pushed a shot glass towards me. Her friends smiled encouragingly.

  “Are you sure?” I looked from Nick to his mother and back again.

  “Da, da, is not going to hurt you. Is good for you.” She and her friends laughed gently, like they were watching a baby take her first bite of solid food. They thought my hesitancy was adorable. I took one swig, and then another. Soon Nick and I were up dancing the polka to incredibly loud accordion music. And by the end of the evening we were behind the bandstand making out.

  “Your son is over 18. We could take him to court and sue him for statutory rape.” This was Bruce’s idea of a conversation starter. I sank down, trying to disappear.

  Mrs. Sokov pulled herself up and said, “Why are you even here? Where is her father? Who are you to speak for this family?”

  My mother looked uncomfortable but answered, “Her father lives in Hawaii. He can’t be here. Bruce is helping me out.”

  Mrs. Sokov shook her head sadly. “The father should be here.”

  Mrs. Sokov turned to Nick and gestured toward me. “We want you to marry this girl. She’s having a baby, you need to marry.” She put her hand on his arm and gave a little push. “Ask her, son. Go ahead.”

  Seconds passed awkwardly. Finally, Nick turned to me. “Come in the kitchen” he said quietly, his face close to mine.

  I followed him out of the room, leaving the adults glaring at each other. Once in the kitchen, Nick managed a fairly romantic proposal, considering the circumstances.

  “Do you really want to do this?” I asked. We held each other’s hands, mustering up as much emotional connection as possible.

  “Sure I do, I just didn’t want to ask you like this,” he said, and kissed me.

  We went back in and told our parents we were getting married. While my mother pursed her lips in stricken disapproval, the Sokovs jumped up and hugged both of us. Mrs. Sokov pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket, and carefully unwrapped what she had tucked inside it in anticipation of this likelihood. With reverential ceremony she put a communion wafer in each of our mouths and kissed our cheeks in the European way. It was official.

  My mother had mixed feelings. Over the next few weeks I found brochures from homes for unwed mothers in the mailbox, but we never talked about them. When Nick came to the house, Mom told him in no uncertain terms what a low-life she thought he was, then the next day she’d take me shopping for a wedding dress.

  Dad called her from Hawaii and the two of them talked ab
out abortion. It was well before Roe v. Wade, so we would have to go to a country where it was legal. Since my father was in Hawaii, he suggested Japan. I could stay with him afterwards and go to school in Honolulu for the rest of the school year.

  To my surprise, I had a college fund, set up by my parents when they divorced, with just the right amount of money in it for a trip for two to Tokyo. My sister’s share had paid for her wedding. My father strongly urged that mine be used to take care of my “problem.”

  I still wanted to have the baby, but it began to look like if I did it would be without Nick. He started to go missing for days at a time. When I called him, he wouldn’t answer. His boss at work said he wasn’t in. His friends told me they hadn’t seen him.

  When he did show up briefly, he sometimes frightened me. One sunny September day he drove me past the cemetery and laughed in a disturbing way as he pointed out the baby section lined with little white crosses.

  Nick came by on a Saturday to take me for a ride on a friend’s motorcycle. I was excited as I climbed onto the back and put my arms around his waist. The sun was shining and my hair whipped around in the wind. We drove around the neighborhood for a few minutes, and then suddenly he picked up speed and flew down a steep hill as fast as he could. At the bottom, he slammed on his breaks, and sent me flying off the back of the bike. Even though I landed on the grassy parking strip, blood dripped down my leg from a gash on my knee. He had a twisted smile on his face.

  The next day I went for a long walk and thought about my options. Time was my enemy. The longer I waited to make a decision the worse things got. It was obvious that Nick didn’t want to get married. Knowing that he had been forced into proposing was humiliating. He had been the pursuer, the one so madly in love. Now I was the needy one. I wanted to think there was hope for us, that he and the baby and I could still be a family.

  As I stepped off the curb near Nick’s house, a red convertible drove by, top down and music blasting. Driving the car was a pretty blonde, and sitting right next to her in the front seat was Nick. He didn’t see me stop short and choke on my breath, watching as they drove by. Adrenaline surged through my body, and all I wanted to do was get away. I just wanted to be a normal sixteen-year-old again, without life and death decisions to make. Nick could so easily move on and have fun without having to worry about me.

  I got home as fast as I could, and ran straight to the phone. I called my mother at work. “I want to go to Hawaii,” I said. “I want to go right away, now.” I didn’t know if I’d have an abortion or have the baby in Honolulu, but either way I was getting away.

  * * *

  I yanked my suitcase off the baggage conveyer. The sun shone in through the airport windows and I peeled off my sweater. I was relieved to see Dad and Donna there to pick me up, but I felt self-conscious and embarrassed. Dad put a lei around my neck. I knew they couldn’t be too happy about the appearance of a pregnant teenager. Dad and I hadn’t lived together for six years, and I had never even spent one night under the same roof as Donna. They had sailed to Hawaii on a 38 foot boat, and were living aboard for a year.

  The cabin of the boat was even smaller than I remembered. My bunk was in the main part of the cabin across from the tiny galley. The head was between the galley and the bow where my dad and Donna slept. All the shelves had rails across the fronts so that books and dishes would stay put when the boat heeled. Shame oozed out every pore of my body when I saw that one whole shelf was filled with books on how to deal with teenagers in crisis.