A tall, tan guy did a double take as he passed with a couple kids hopping along behind in his shadow. The wife, and I assumed she was his wife, trailed behind the kids. She looked Tina quickly up and down before staring right through her. Maybe she had just done with her eyes what I was doing right now—assessing Tina’s man-stealing potential. In my book, the potential ranked high. But, the wife was pretty and with her wall-straight posture and slow stride, she surely had way more self-confidence than I ever would.
Tina smiled, tossing her long blond hair with a smooth whip of the neck, pretending to ignore all the admiration. She was loving it. I was ready to bolt. We’d spend the trip together, I knew, until she found someone to hook up with, and then she’d leave me in the cabin or on the deck. Sitting there, alone, on one of those navy blue lounge chairs. Good thing I remembered to pack a couple Harlequins.
“I am so happy we decided to do this,” Tina exclaimed, her smile more genuine than mine. “We’re going to have such a great time!” Tina squealed as she squeezed my fleshy arm. I was fairly certain that Tina’s idea of a good time differed slightly from mine. It was in college. She went out to drink and hook up; I went out to people watch. I came on this vacation to relax and sight see. Tina came to see and be seen.
I returned her squeeze with an aggressive one of my own, confident that I could break a bone or two if I squeezed harder, if I really tried, if I really wanted to. The ship’s horn blared, announcing departure. “Hurry!” squealed Tina. “I want to get a spot along the guardrail.”
“Why?” I asked.
“So we can wave to everyone as we set sail.”
We stood side-by-side, silent and thoughtful. Waving to people neither of us knew. People aboard gathered in clusters behind us, the younger ones edging against the guardrail, the older, more experienced travelers content to stand farther behind. Some chose to sit on the navy blue lounge chairs that had been pushed against the ship’s wall to make room for the waving passengers. Tina occasionally peeked over her shoulder to glance at those behind, searching the crowd for possible hook-ups. She whispered, “Ah, so many men, so little time.” Yeah, I’d heard her use that line many times before.
I turned to see who she might’ve been looking at. There were quite a few hotties. I caught a glimpse of the tan guy with the kids checking out Tina, the wife ushering her little ones closer to the guardrail, perhaps to wave good-bye to grandma and grandpa. People stared, people smiled. Eyes went to Tina’s butt on display in her little red bottom. Maybe it was the color, or maybe she really did have the perfect butt, or maybe…
Tina and I both noticed an older couple sitting close together on the lounge chairs, smiling to themselves. She elbowed me as the old man stole a quick look in her direction. Old men were always the most forward with her, quick with a compliment. His wife seemed not to notice his mild indiscretion. He whispered into her ear and she nodded, and he took a bold look at Tina’s rear. Tina’s mouth curved wickedly as she gave her backside a wiggle.
I giggled at Tina’s provocation, mostly because I remembered what I had seen when she had first approached me. I tried to steer my attention elsewhere, aiming it toward the ones left behind on the dock. We could be those people, wishing we were aboard the luxury liner instead of actually being on it. We will have a good time, I repeated over and over inside my head.
Tina leaned seductively over the rail, hair brushing the rail. She glanced behind us once more, no doubt hoping her “possibilities” had taken notice.
“Don’t look,” warned Tina as she turned back to the dock, “but the old guy’s wife just scolded him.” I couldn’t resist. When someone tells me not to look, my automatic response is elementary—I look. The old woman locked eyes on Tina’s butt. What she was really looking at dawned on me. What her husband was looking at, what the tan guy and his wife had looked at, what others behind us had probably seen by now.
“Here she comes,” I said. “No!” Tina whispered with a giggle, keeping her eyes straight ahead and waving. My heart skipped a beat and I turned away.
In my peripheral vision, a gnarled finger tapped Tina on the shoulder. Tina turned to face the old woman. The woman yelled over the excited hollering of vacationers around us, “Excuse me dear, but I think your tampon string is hanging down! My husband noticed it first! He wasn’t sure if that’s what it was, so he asked me! I thought it was a tampon string too, and knew you’d want to know!”
Tina turned as red as her bikini, then elbowed and wiggled her way through the crowd on her way to the closest bathroom, I presumed. I stayed at the guardrail, waving and hooting “Bye!” to the strangers below. Laughing, happier than I’d ever been since college, I hoped a good friend would forgive me for not speaking up.
Cathy Jordan is the author of the supernatural thriller, Do You See What I See, to be published by Sunbury Press. A native of Mountain Top, Pennsylvania, and graduate of Pennsylvania State University, she now lives in Harrisburg with her songwriting husband and five rambunctious children.
Smoke
By
Lori M. Myers
If ever Marly needed a cigarette, it was right now, right here, inside her childhood home, filled with memories of hide-and-go seek and timeouts in the corner. Of secret kisses in the foyer. Of old chairs with pennies stuck beneath cushions. Of people in black clothing wearing sympathetic stares after her father’s funeral. She was only in high school then.
“Marly!”
A raspy voice echoed from the bedroom. Marly breathed deeply, taking in the musty smell common in places where sickness had settled in for the long haul.
“Marly, is that you?”
She put her suitcase down where she stood, her gut knotting up like strained wire. She thrust her hand into her purse and heard the clink of loose change, the prick of brush bristles. Keys. Baggage claim stubs. Gum wrappers. Ever so close was her return airline ticket to home - her adopted home along the California surf - along with crumpled notepaper containing the phone number of that creepy guy in seat 36D. And then the crush of cellophane. Ah, cellophane.
She pulled the pack out of her purse and peered into it, relieved to see three cigarettes. She shook one out, and pinched the filter between trembling fingers.
“Marly!”
“Coming, Mother.” Stay light, be calm, relax. It’s only temporary.
Marly walked across the cracked linoleum to the stove and turned on one of the burners. Holding the cigarette tip to the flame, she inhaled, the warm smoke pressing against her insides and then watched the smoke curl into the air as she released it from her lungs.
“Marly! Come here.”
Instinct and the past paralyzed her bones. Stay light. High heels and the emery board rub of pantyhose rushed at her in the form of her sister whose put-together look always took hours to get just right.
“About time you get here. And get rid of the butt!”
Marly shrugged, made a face. The smoke tasted like a first kiss. She wanted it to last, now and forever. So sweet, like a song. Stalling for time, Marly held the smoldering ash under the tap, listened to its fatal hiss, dropped the butt into the garbage disposal, then eyed it as it fell into the thick, black hole.
“You’ve got no common sense, Marly. With Mom sick and all from that very thing.”
Ann’s devotion to their mother was legendary, making her eligible for martyrdom and the owner of every sympathetic look in town. Marly, on the other hand, elicited nose-up-in-the-air stares on the rare occasion when she bothered to venture home. They’re jealous, Marly reasoned, and fearful, too. Because I was the one who got away. Who couldn’t be baited or fooled into rotting in a place like this.
Odd duck that she’d been as a child, she’d adopted survival tactics while growing up. Had even dressed and talked like them. Agreed with their views and politics. Followed their customs, mimicked their twang. Finally, when she was old enough and had some money saved, she’d run clear across the country, her heart beating, promising never to r
eturn. Raise her face to the California sun as the warmth melted away her scowl. Toss her shoes into the water and feel the wet sand slink around her toes. Wear men’s T-shirts and bare her slim arms.
A “free spirit” her mother had called her with a disdain that Marly sensed long distance.
Marly remembered when her sister first called about their mother’s illness. That had been a ten-cigarette night.
“Lung cancer,” Ann had said with undertones of “I told you so.” Then she’d added, “Inoperable. Stage 3B. You have to come.”
Soon she’d made travel arrangements because Ann kept calling. “Mom needs you next to her one last time.”
Marly had gone to the airport, hoping beyond hope that all the seats would be filled or that an earthquake would wreak havoc for at least a month, making any sort of travel impossible. When her wishes hadn’t been granted, Marly boarded the flight and watched as the city lights flickered in the distance and prayed that the plane would crash. But no such luck.
Now here she was, in this place whose dreariness reminded her of a ghost town overrun with tumbleweeds and in dire need of a time machine.
“The instructions for Mom’s medications are on her nightstand,” Ann said. “I’ll be back Sunday night. Make sure she keeps her food down. She vomits a lot.”
Marly plopped herself down at the kitchen table. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Stop it, Marly. I can’t do everything. My nerves are shot.”
“Geez, what did I say? I just got here. Don’t take your aggression out on me.”
“Drop the California dreamin’ attitude.” Ann gathered her purse and travel bag and marched to the front door. “There are harsh realities here.”
“And you’re one of them,” Marly mumbled. She leaned back and waited for the barrage.
“Run and it’ll go away, huh, Marly? If you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist?”
“Whatever you say.”
“You’re the cause, you know.”
“Go on, Ann. You’ve been aching to say it.”
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”
“That’s nothing new.”
Ann let out a puff of air. “It’s all because of you.”
“Because of me, what?”
Ann’s eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean.”
Jesus. Ann could never just say anything. What a drama queen. “I know exactly what you’re thinking. So say it, damnit.”
“I gave up my life!” Ann stared up at the ceiling, tears washing her cheeks, and pointed toward the bedrooms. “Now I’m left with...that.”
Marly noticed the sagging beneath Ann’s eyes, her tense look, one foot cemented against the other like some army sergeant at attention. Silence, like stifling air, lingered as Ann caught her breath. “I just need a couple of days away from here. Okay? Then you can go back to your world.”
Ann’s voice shook; and was that a bit of gray hair at her temple? She seemed to age right before Marly’s eyes. Suddenly, Ann turned and bolted out the door, slamming it behind her. The rev of a car’s engine and tires skating on ice faded into the quiet night. A voice sliced through the momentary silence.
“Marly! Come here!”
Marly shook the pack and a cigarette fell onto the table. Two left. She had promised herself she would quit but now wasn’t the time or the place. She’d buy more tomorrow. This town shuttered-up after sundown and the closest bar was 25 miles away. Nothing ever changed here.
“Marly!”
Marly put the last cigarette in her pocket and lit the other one, puffing on it like a locomotive on its last journey and drawing on the filter until her cheeks sunk into her face. Then she opened the window over the sink and slapped at the smoke as it slipped through the screen and disappeared into the freezing night.
“Marly!”
“Right there, Mom,” Marly shouted between drags.
Soon the cigarette was less than a stub. She dropped the remnant down the garbage disposal to join its mate.
Marly sat on a corner chair in her mother’s bedroom for what seemed like hours. Her mother stared at the ceiling, wrinkled hands folded atop her comforter. A half-filled bowl of soup and a used tea bag cluttered the nightstand under a lamp shaded in chintz and dripping with beads. The stink of medicine and stagnant air almost made Marly yearn for the musty smell that had greeted her when she’d first walked into the house. Sleet tapped like bored fingernails against the windowpane and the radio’s static reminded Marly of the Pacific waves that had once cooled her feet. Was that a splash she heard? The laughter of surfers, the sound of dogs bounding along the shore, of light and air and freedom? She wanted to scream.
“Where’s Ann?” her mother finally demanded.
“It’s just me for a couple of days, Mom,” Marly said with a hint of resentment. She hoped her mother wouldn’t hear the insincerity of her words.
“You can’t even take care of yourself,” her mother said slowly. “Where’s Ann?”
“She left,” Marly shot back. “And you’re stuck with me now.”
Her mother turned, lips forming a sneer. “I’m better off dead than to be with you.”
Marly felt the rising tension, clutched her thighs and squeezed until they hurt. “You’re lucky I came!”
“Who asked you to come?” her mother snapped.
Just then the phone rang. On the other end, a male voice spoke. For the next few minutes Marly couldn’t remember much of what he said. Officer-somebody. Car-something. Accident. Snow. Sleet. Do you know an Ann Westwood? Ann. Serious. Treacherous. We’ll get back to you. Tell you where we’re taking her.
Some sound rose in Marly’s throat. Guttural. Strange. Goodbye, maybe. She hung up.
“Who was that?” Marly’s mother asked.
“Nobody,” Marly said. She felt fragile, like she could break. Somehow she was back in the chair. “Wrong number. Nobody.”
“Whaddaya mean, nobody? What’s wrong with you? Can’t you even learn to ask who’s calling? You never did worry about details, did you?”
Marly looked away from her mother’s icy stare. Should she call somebody? Find out what’s going on? Why hadn’t she asked for a number?
“You can’t even do something simple like find out who’s on the phone.”
“Shut up.” Marly shook. Had she really said that?
“Where’s Ann? I want Ann.”
The phone rang again and Marly jumped. She picked up the receiver at mid-ring. It was the same male voice. Calling her by name this time. Asking if she was a relative of Ann Westwood.
Oh, God. She wanted that last cigarette right now.
“Yes,” Marly said. “I’m her sister.”
Her mother lifted her head off the pillow. Yanked the plastic tubing from her nose and face. “What?”
The male voice droned. Ms. Westwood sustained numerous serious injuries. Doctors tried their best. No sense in coming tonight. Bad storm tonight. Nothing to be done. Oh, the fetus did not survive the crash. How about other family members?
Fetus? “Just me. And our mother.” Stay light. Be light.
Then the man said he was sorry.
Marly hung up the receiver.
“Who was that? Marly...?”
Marly sat down on the edge of the bed. Smoothed aside wisps of her mother’s gray-white hair that had fallen onto her forehead. She had never bothered to really look at her mother’s face before. The dimple, the lined forehead, the sculpted chin.
Her mother stared at Marly as if waiting for a sign. Then her body seemed to fold in retreat. “I’d die for a cigarette,” her mother said softly.
“I know, Mom.”
“No, I mean it. I need one so bad.”
Marly’s fingertips traced the blue veins of her mother’s temple. The creases around her mother’s teary eyes. She outlined her mother’s mouth, thin at the top, fuller at the bottom. Much like her own. Her mother’s lips quivered beneath her touch.
“You’re such a good d
aughter,” her mother whispered. “One cigarette. Just one.”
Marly turned down the valve on the machine. She slipped the cigarette from her pocket and turned away to light it, taking a long, slow drag. She held her breath for a moment, then turned and faced her mother whose expression was now one of pleading, pain and acceptance. Carefully, tenderly, Marly pressed her mouth against her mother’s. Together, they opened their lips and the sweet fumes swelled, exhaled from one, inhaled by another. Marly thought it felt like the pull of the ocean at high tide. Oh, how she would miss that.
Lori M. Myers is a Pushcart Prize nominee and an award-winning writer of creative nonfiction, fiction, essays, and plays. Her work has been published in national magazines and literary publications, and her plays and musicals have been performed on five regional stages. She teaches writing at York College and Penn State York, and is a reviewer/judge for the new Chautauqua Prize, a national award for fiction and literary/narrative nonfiction. Lori holds a MA in creative writing from Wilkes University.
NUMBER 11
By
Maria McKee
Score one for the weatherman. Last night he’d forecasted a record-setting snowstorm and I didn’t believe him. This morning thick snow is falling. I haven’t been to the grocery store in a week, and I’m out of all the essentials. The thought of maneuvering around panicked shoppers isn’t appealing, and I’m tempted to stay home, but an empty refrigerator seems a worse choice.
By the time I reach the store, the parking lot is packed. I hurry to get bread, milk and eggs, then head to the deli. The line isn’t long, but only one clerk is on duty—“Doug,” according to his black and white nametag. He calls out, “number 10, please.”
A woman standing in front of the deli case draws my interest. Her short brown hair is straight and unkempt. Two child’s yellow barrettes, in the shape of ducks, are clipped on top of her head, but fail to keep hair out of her eyes. The nap on her coat is flat, meager, and the fur collar is ragged and patchy, as if someone took scissors to it, then had a change of mind. In one hand she grips a grocery basket and a small black change purse with a red rubber band wrapped around it; with the other, she holds up her customer ticket, number 11, as if she’s at an auction.
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