Triumph Over Tragedy: an anthology for the victims of Hurricane Sandy

by R. T. Kaelin

  Inside, he set me down, and I watched him light a few lanterns. We were in a shop filled with cabinets and paper, big containers of ink, rollers, and a great contraption of metal larger than a bear. The boy continued to babble on, and I realized that in all my years, boys had never talked to me, only at me. Often, as they were throwing things.

  “I don’t normally wet it down until Saturday, cat,” he said, gesturing at the great contraption. “Turn it Sunday. See, we’re a weekly, and the paper comes out on Thursday. That means one came out this mornin’. No wonder Ament was mad. I wasn’t around to deliver it. ‘Cept, I can’t wait until next Thursday or the one after to tell my story. We’re gonna print us up a special edition, cat. Tonight! And ol’ Captain Hobart’ll have the front page all to hisself. Gotta get the date right. August thirteenth, eighteen forty-eight.”

  I watched the boy work. “Only one page, cat, and I’ll use the large type to take up space. Hope I can spell everythin’ right.” His fingers were plucking pieces of metal from racks—letters, he explained. Nearly all of these he arranged in rows, but he threw some bits away. “These’re no good,” he said. “Bent, worn, can’t get a good print from ‘em.” He tossed them in a box. “Gotta throw the bad pieces away, into the hell matter.” He paused. “I think ol’ Captain Hobart and Junkman Jim belong in the hell matter, too.” He smiled wide. “Jail is a hell matter box for bad people.”

  Despite being up so many hours, and frequently complaining about his sore head, he toiled without stop. Me? I slept off and on and wondered in between if the boy might think to feed me. I had, indeed, rescued him from the cave. I saved his life. And I had, by nipping his thumb, urged him to tell his tale to all of Hannibal now, rather than next Thursday. The boy owed me a meal.

  It was dawn when the boy was finished pressing his one-sheet newspapers. He read the headline to me:

  Respected Riverboat Captain Daniel Hobart

  Mastermind Behind Scheme to Rob Passengers

  Hannibal’s Junkman Jim in Kahoots

  “Not the best turn of phrase, cat,” the boy told me. “But then I ain’t had me a chance to write the news before. Good for a first effort, don’t you think?”

  I meowed my approval.

  Later I clung to the buildings, watching him as he scurried from business to business and house to house, delivering his special edition and knocking on doors to wake up those still sleeping inside. He was careful to stay away from the river, not wanting to cross paths with Captain Hobart. And when he spotted Junkman Jim—fortunately Jim was looking the other way—the boy disappeared down an alley.

  He did feed me well when he was finished, and he carried me up to a room above a drugstore, where both of us lay down on a small bed and slept the rest of the day away.

  * *** *

  It was a week later, a fine Thursday morning, that Sam and I sat on the bank of the river, watching a steamer pass by. Captain Hobart and Junkman Jim were safely tucked away in a hell matter box—Hannibal’s jail—and word was they were to be shipped down to St. Louis to begin a long sentence. More would be joining them, as Hobart had others like Junkman Jim working for him in several river towns in Missouri and Iowa.

  Sam had delivered all the regular editions of the Hannibal Courier—that contained more detailed stories about Hobart and his gang—and was declared finished for the day. Ament hadn’t fired him, rather he’d given the boy a modest raise and the title of assistant editor. Sam seemed pleased at this.

  I was pleased, too.

  For the first time in my long years, I had a home. Above a drugstore in the heart of Hannibal, a place at the foot of Sam’s bed. For the rest of my days I was fed well and given saucers of milk, and I went to work with Sam on all the mornings my legs felt like carrying me.

  I never cared much for boys.

  Except for this one.

  *

  Two quotes that inspired this tale:

  Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) said this in an address at the Typothetae dinner, given at Delmonico’s, January 18, 1886, Commemorating the birthday of Benjamin Franklin:

  “The chairman’s historical reminiscences of Gutenberg have caused me to fall into reminiscences, for I myself am something of an antiquity. All things change in the procession of years, and it may be that I am among strangers. It may be that the printer of today is not the printer of thirty-five years ago. I was no stranger to him. I knew him well. I built his fire for him in the winter mornings; I brought his water from the village pump; I swept out his office; I picked up his type from under his stand; and, if he were there to see, I put the good type in his case and the broken ones among the “hell matter”; and if he wasn’t there to see, I dumped it all with the “pi” on the imposing-stone—for that was the furtive fashion of the cub, and I was a cub. I wetted down the paper Saturdays, I turned it Sundays—for this was a country weekly; I rolled, I washed the rollers, I washed the forms, I folded the papers, I carried them around at dawn Thursday mornings.”

  “Of all God’s creatures there is only one that cannot be made the slave of the leash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.”

  - Mark Twain Notebook, 1894

  *

  The Adjoa Gambit

  by Rick Novy

  Shannon pressed the door firmly closed before embarking on the long walk to the rationing station. Today marked the sixth anniversary of her arrival at ARIP, the Antarctic Reservation for Indigenous Population, but she still couldn’t get used to the bitter cold. Shannon’s mind drifted to the memories of a warm Phoenix evening from somewhere in her childhood, then shook it off to concentrate on the task at hand—collecting the family’s food ration for the week.

  As she approached the rationing station, Shannon saw the line snaking around the corner of the two-story corrugated aluminum building. The wait would be at least an hour today. She adjusted the empty bag slung over her shoulder and hastened to the end of the line, settling in behind a woman with three children. The woman was struggling to keep her children from complaining about the cold.

  “Most of us leave the children back in the domes, Shannon said.

  When the woman turned around, Shannon could see that her face was very dark. She said something in a language Shannon never heard before, maybe an African language. Life at ARIP was rougher on some people than others. English was the default common-tongue, and the newcomers who didn’t speak English really struggled until they could learn.

  The tallest of the woman’s children said something in their language, then they conversed for several seconds before the little girl, no more than ten years old, turned to Shannon and said, “We don’t have a dome.”

  No dome? Everyone had a dome. The little girl had to be lying.

  The line edged forward three steps. The girl helped her mother to chase the two younger children back into the line before they moved.

  The girl had a look on her face. It was the look of a person numbed by trauma, as if Shannon could disembowel someone and the girl wouldn’t blink. It was the look of acceptance that death was inevitable, and soon in coming, and the look that the good times were gone forever, if they ever existed at all for this little girl.

  Shannon felt pity for the girl and her family, even though her own situation was not much better. “Where are you staying until you get a dome?”

  The girl conversed again with her mother, but this time, the woman grabbed her shoulder and turned her away from Shannon. A few moments passed and the line shuffled forward another few steps. As the girl moved, she turned her head and mouthed, “Nowhere.” The mother placed a gloved hand on the girl’s head and turned her around.

  The girl remained silent until they reached the entrance, just a wooden door propped open to allow the snaking line to slither inside. Upon entering the building, the African family was confronted by a guard, a big, leather-skinned troglodyte of a Proc. He sat behind a folding table, and a worn deck of cards rested near
his left elbow.

  He looked grumpy. Most Procs were grumpy, or worse. Rumor said that their planet in the Procyon system was largely tropical jungles and swamps, and they hated the cold. As a result, only the dregs of their society ended up at ARIP as guards.

  The African woman began to cry as the Proc gestured with wild incomprehensibility. Shannon was terrified despite being able to understand the guard with her meager vocabulary of the Proc language. At first, he was waving around the deck of cards, then he was just trying to get the woman to sign in with her thumbprint.

  A gap formed in the line ahead of the African family. Shannon tried to approach the little girl to explain the situation, but retreated when the troglodyte growled at her. The woman finally seemed to understand, pressed her thumb against the reader, then filled the gap in the line.

  The Proc waved the cards at Shannon, but she just pressed her thumb against the reader and continued on her way, ignoring the Proc.

  The line flowed quickly once past the gatekeeper. Shannon exchanged her food coupon for a box of rations, dropped it into her bag, then made her way to the door. She passed the African family on the way out. The little girl was talking to Larry, a black preacher from Oakland. Her mother stood nearby, wrestling to keep the girl’s two younger siblings from running off. Shannon waved when the girl glanced in her direction, but the girl quickly turned her attention back to Larry.

  * *** *

  Back in her dome that evening, Shannon had just put her little one to bed when she heard a knock on the door. Who would come to call at this hour? Sure, there was still daylight, but this was unusual. She opened the door until the chain stopped it, then looked out the crack to see Larry and the African family. The children were shivering from the cold.

  Shannon unlatched the chain then opened the door wide. “Come in, get out of the cold.”

  Larry let the family file past. The mother was still carrying her box of rations. Larry entered last. “Thank-you for letting us in.” Shannon closed the door as Larry continued. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Interesting. This woman who would have nothing to do with Shannon earlier was now sitting in her dome. And Larry, he was usually the one granting favors. “Want?”

  The two now joined the African family in the living chamber. Larry took a seat on the sofa next to the woman, and Shannon sat on a packing crate she used as an extra chair. Larry waited until everyone was seated before answering Shannon’s question.

  “This is the Olympio family.” He waved his hand in their direction. “They are in need of shelter, and my dome is far too small.”

  So, the little girl was telling the truth. They really didn’t have a dome—but why? “What happened to the dome they were issued by the Procs?”

  Larry and the oldest girl, the girl who understood some English, exchanged glances before he answered. “They lost it.”

  “Would you mind explaining how one loses something the size of a dome?” Shannon asked, hoping that the tone of voice didn’t sound overly condescending.

  The little girl answered. “The dome is still there.”

  Shannon’s face must have telegraphed her confusion, because Larry spoke as she looked toward the little girl. “They lost title to the dome to a Proc. They love to gamble, you know.”

  After six years at ARIP, of course Shannon knew of the Proc penchant for gambling. She’d just never heard of anyone stupid enough to bet their dome—or desperate enough.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Larry said, “but they were duped.” He shook his head. “So many of our people are being duped, but never anything like this. They’ve been forcing people to bet their ration coupons for quite some time. I fear this family might be the first of many to lose their dome.

  “I didn’t realize it was that bad a problem,” Shannon said.

  “I’m a preacher. People talk to me.

  “How long do they need to stay?” She asked, but she already knew what the answer would be.

  “I don’t know, Shannon.”

  Her instinct was right, the answer was indefinitely.

  Larry continued. “The town council plans to discuss a course of action this evening.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “In fact, I must be going if I’m to be there on time.”

  Shannon let Larry out, then turned her attention to her unexpected guests. The African woman, tired and haggard-looking, sat at the end of the sofa, picking absently at the thread on the arm that was pulled loose when it snagged on the door latch the day Shannon moved it into the dome.

  The oldest child, the one who could speak some English, sat still, staring at the door. The other two children had already fallen asleep. An odor wafted through the room. One of the children must have farted.

  Shannon closed her eyes so the family wouldn’t see her roll them, then she sat back on the packing crate and addressed the oldest girl. “Did you eat?”

  The girl shook her head almost imperceptibly. Something had definitely changed the little girl. She seemed eager to talk in line, now she was so closed up. The mother had stopped playing with the thread and was now using her fingernail to trace the scratches on the end table left when Shannon’s son pushed a brick across the surface.

  She glanced back and forth between the two Africans as she realized that she still didn’t even know their names. She left them there to fetch extra blankets and pillows from the linen closet. When she returned with arms full of bedding, they hadn’t moved.

  “You can sleep in this room,” Shannon said as she set the pile of blankets on the floor in front of the sofa. Nobody moved, so she walked away. A glance at the clock accompanied by a yawn told her that she needed sleep, too.

  * *** *

  Shannon awoke with the feeling she was being watched. She opened her eyes to see the oldest African girl standing arm’s length away from the bed, then struggled to revive enough mental capacity to talk.

  “What is it, honey?”

  The little girl didn’t move at first. Shannon was about to say something when the child spoke in a quiet voice. “We didn’t mumble mumble.”

  “What did you say, sweetie?” She propped herself on one elbow as the girl repeated what she said.

  “We didn’t need to lose our dome.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She fidgeted before she replied. Her voice remained quiet. “The Procs aren’t good players. I know how to beat them, but my mother wouldn’t listen to me because I’m just a kid.”

  Shannon’s mind was still groggy with sleep, so what the girl said wasn’t really sinking in. She thought about it for a moment, fighting the urge to go back to sleep. Finally, she asked the girl, “What do you mean they aren’t good players?”

  She put her head down and kicked at the carpet with her right foot as she replied. “They are sloppy. They try to scare you to make you sloppier than them, but I know they’re sloppy so I can beat them. I’m not sloppy.”

  Confused, Shannon pushed herself to a seated position. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

  The little girl stopped fidgeting now. She looked Shannon square in the eye and said, “Because I need your help.”

  “You need my help? With what?”

  There was great determination in those dark little eyes. Whatever the girl wanted, Shannon was sure she would get it.

  “I’m going to get my dome back.” Not her family’s dome now, her dome. “I need you to bet with the Proc. I’ll tell you exactly what to do. Trust me.”

  Trust her? Shannon didn’t even know the girl’s name! And then, bet with a Proc? Bet what? The only thing of any value was her own dome. Why repeat somebody else’s mistake? No, betting with a Proc was out of the question.

  Shannon had to give the girl some kind of answer so they both could get back to sleep. But, what to say?

  “Why don’t you have your mother help you?”

  The little girl’s face contorted in anger. “She didn’t listen to me the last time, what mak
es you think she’ll listen this time?” She made an exaggerated sigh. “Besides, she doesn’t have anything left to bet.”

  The girl had a point, but that wasn’t good enough for Shannon to risk her own dome. “What’s in it for me?” Shannon stared down the girl as she would an adult. “Why should I risk my dome to try winning back the dome of complete strangers?”

  The girl looked hurt. “But we’re staying at your house. We aren’t strangers.”

  “I don’t even know your names!”

  The girl’s face softened. “Now that I think about it, I don’t know your name either.”

  Shannon extended her arm. “I’m Shannon. My son Alvin is asleep in his room. You’ll meet him in the morning.”

  The girl took Shannon’s hand and as they shook, the girl said, “My name is Adjoa Olympio. My mother’s name is Amima. My sister is Ama, my brother is Kossi.”

  Shannon couldn’t help but pry. “Where is your father?”

  “His name was Koffi. He was killed in the resistance.” She gazed down at her feet. “A lot of the dads died in the resistance in Togo.”

  Shannon pulled young Adjoa closer. “A lot of dads died in the resistance in every country. With Adjoa opening up, Shannon wanted to get as much information out of her as possible. “Your mother, she doesn’t speak any English?”

  “She can only speak in Ewe.”

  Shannon tried to pronounce it. “Elway?”

  “That’s close,” she said, “but without the L. It’s named after my tribe.” There was an uncomfortable pause, and then Adjoa continued. “Will you help me?”

  Shannon sighed. “Let me sleep on it.”

  * *** *

  Shannon had already made her decision not to do it, but wanted to save the inevitable fight for morning. Morning came, and she still didn’t know how to tell Adjoa that there would be no betting. Reluctantly, she threw off the covers and was about to make her way to the kitchen for breakfast when her son, Alvin, burst into the room in tears, boogers flowing out his nose.