Vox Inaudica

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R-Evolution, San Francisco –
Photo by Rind Staff
Rind Issue 18
September 2025
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Rind Literary Magazine
Issue 18
september 2025
rindliterarymagazine.com
All Works © Respective Authors, 2025
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Editor in Chief:
Dylan gascon
Fiction Editors:
Johnathan Etchart
Jenny Lin
Melinda Smith
Stephen williams
Shaymaa Mahmoud
Nonfiction Editors:
Collette Curran
Owen Torres
Anastasia Zamora
Poetry Editors:
Shaymaa Mahmoud
Sean hisaka
Lisa Tate
Blog Manager:
Dylan Gascon
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Table of Contents
Santa in the Dry Season/Boma Cho …………………….……………….….6
Eutychus/Huntley Paton…………………………………………………..…….7
The Car/Esther Sadoff………………………………………………………..26
Fame, Friendship, and Flower Anatomy/Subramani Mani ………………28
Actor-Dreamers/James Croal Jackson ………………………………………..46
Aunt Alma’s Flower/Scott Bassis …………………………………………..48
Contributors………………………………………………………………69
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Santa in the Dry Season
By Boma Cho
Weaver birds ae singing again
This is the dry season
The sun will shine again
and reflect its rays
into the hearts of the people
Happily, the people will parade
their fields again
The stringent noises, the waterfalls
Will become soothing and melodious
And witty sayings will flow off
My old man’s mouth
Like the smoke from his pipe
It’s fun time again
Time to ride horses
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Eutychus
By Huntley Gibson Paton
When Tom punched his father in the face, he didn’t have the slightest bad feeling about
it. Not even when he bent down and took a good look at Daddington’s split lip and the way his
eyes rolled up white. Even when Daddymeister came to, pulled himself up, knocked over Mom’s
favorite vase and stumbled right through the sliding door onto the patio — glass pebbles
everywhere, dog going nuts — Tom didn’t give it a second thought. He was high, wildly free,
unconstrained by gravity, blood ties or the rules of men. He was eating cereal when Mom came
home from the hairdresser.
He spent the next three months in the Bicker County Juvenile Detention Center, and
there, he thought about it a lot. He felt bad about the vase. He wasn’t sure why he punched His
Highness. Something to do with the dog.
When he got out on his eighteenth birthday, he was not welcome at home, which figured,
so he hitchhiked down to Dallas and spent a couple months there, ate and slept mostly beside a
dumpster behind a barbecue joint. It was spring and the lightning storms were bad. Sometimes,
he could feel the ground shake. The drugs were easy to find, but money wasn’t. He made a
cardboard sign and panhandled.
For a while he joined a picking crew in Waxahachie, got stung by fire ants every day. He
started a fistfight with a yappy local kid after an argument over a rake, stole three crisp fifties out
of the foreman’s pickup truck one time, robbed a Mexican lady another time, and then he went
back to Dallas in early fall, before the heat broke. Some new guy had staked out the good
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dumpster by then, a guy with about half his teeth gone and a snarly dog and a shiv fashioned out
of bamboo, so Tom had to find somewhere else to go. For two weeks he slept in an abandoned
Hyundai, before the city towed it.
He met a girl, Gabriela. They did the deed in the Hyundai and other places. She would
hook so they could beam up together, but some of those paunchy, fake cowboys driving slow up
and down the block wanted him not her. One day, Gabriela disappeared.
He persevered, stole a nice bicycle in Kessler Park, got decent money for it. He kicked in
the back door of a little church in Oak Cliff late at night, made off with an old slide projector and
two microphones. He traded those for some rocks to smoke. One day he huffed from some
discarded paint-thinner cans. That was pretty good.
Then his older sister Jo Jo found him at the house near Fair Park with all the graffiti and
bullet holes. She looked scared and brave.
Been looking for you for so long, she said. Showed your picture everywhere.
He agreed to go. She bought him two McDonald’s Quarter Pounders and large fries and a
huge soda, bought him underwear and new jeans and a couple T-shirts and sneakers at Walmart.
She took him to a clinic. They kept feeling his armpits and neck and asking him dumb
questions for which they seemed to already know the answers. The doctor said, Dermatitis
neglecta. The doctor said, Malnutrition. The doctor said, Let’s test you for HIV.
Oh, Tom Tom, his sister said.
She drove him back up to East Paw in her blue Tahoe, to her new house in the fancy
development that went bust a couple years before, taken over by the RTC. All the medians were
overgrown, and the empty lots were going back to nature, but Jo Jo’s house was still nice. Tom
showered and when he shut off the water the tub was brown. He put on some of the clothes his
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sister bought for him. Downstairs, her two boys were home from school, sipping juice pouches in
front of the television. Uncle Tommy, they said, hugging him. Little possums, he said.
Jo Jo’s husband Austin wasn’t around. He’s in Saudi Arabia, Jo Jo said. Have you been
watching the news?
No, he said. What’s going on?
She showed him the newspaper. Dang, Tom said.
Jo Jo showed him the stack of shoe boxes she was filling with candy and paperback
novels and deodorant sticks and beef jerky. These go out on a cargo plane day after tomorrow,
she said. These and thousands more like them. Churches everywhere doing it, for the troops.
That night, at her insistence, they drove over to their parents’ old Victorian near the East
Paw town square, which Tom always called Podunk Square or Mayberry, Texas. Mom hugged
him, had wet eyes, and was nervous. Dadzilla, after some hesitation, shook his hand. His face
looked OK. He had a mustache now. The dog, an old terrier, jumped up on her arthritic legs and
cried when she smelled him. Tom scratched her ears, whispered to her. Mom served sweet tea
and some corn chips out on the back porch. The new sliding door was better than the old one. Jo
Jo’s boys played in the backyard beneath the old live oak, where the tree fort used to be, kicking
a soccer ball around.
Wonder Daddy asked him, What are you going to do now?
Don’t know, Tom said.
Well, you can’t stay here. I don’t think any of us are ready for that.
Right, Tom said.
His mother brought him a vitamin and brushed his hair back with her fingers. Look to
God, she whispered. That annoyed Tom a little.
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When they got back to Jo Jo’s house, his sister made up a bed for him on the pullout
couch in the loft. I want you to stay, she said. Long as you need to. Maybe you can go back to
school. Or get your GED.
Tom asked, You got any pain pills?
Jo Jo frowned. She went to her room and came back with a white pill. She said, These are
left over from Austin’s wisdom teeth last year. There’re two more if you need them later.
Thanks, he said. Maybe just bring ‘em now?
He laid there awake in the dark, thinking about the house, what he had seen, things he
might take that Jo Jo wouldn’t notice missing. The juicer in the kitchen looked dusty. How much
silverware did one place need? He took a beef jerky from one of the care packages for the
soldiers and ate it, looking out the window at the streetlights that lit up empty lots all the way
down the block, like they were leading to something.
The next day he swept out Jo Jo’s garage and pulled weeds from her garden beds. The
day after that he tried to fix her leaky kitchen faucet but couldn’t figure it out. It’s OK, she said,
don’t worry about it. The day after that, when the boys were at school and his sister was at work,
he took one of Austin’s jean jackets from the closet and stuffed the pockets with as much of Jo
Jo’s jewelry as he could fit, and walked two miles down to U.S. 75, so he could hitchhike back to
Dallas. At the southbound onramp a landscaping truck clipped him. Tom went airborne in a kind
of camel spin, bounced off a mile marker. Jewelry flew everywhere.
#
In hell, Tom was assigned a place behind the barbecue joint’s dumpster. The guy with the
shiv was there too and every night he stabbed Tom again and again, all over his body, while the
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guy’s snarly dog locked down on Tom’s cojones and just wouldn’t let go. The lightning storms
never ended. In the mornings a squad car would arrive, lights flashing, and the cops, gigantic and
demonic, would hop out, mace him, beat him head to toe, shove a nightstick up his anus, then
break it off at the handle. He lost count of how many broken clubs were stuck up there. There
were no drugs, nothing to ease the pain. Nothing to drink. The restaurant workers who brought
out the food trash were all dead ringers for the Mexican lady he robbed, and the trash bags were
filled with pig rectums and razor blades. It was hot as a Texas summer.
#
But Tom didn’t die. When he came out of the coma, a nurse was the first to notice. She
went up and down the hallway, telling people to come. A big fuss, lots of questions he couldn’t
answer. Someone asked, Can you tell us your name? He said Tom but it came out like Tifbud.
But later, he nailed it: Tom, he said. I’m Tom. He thought he might be late for football practice.
Then the family showed up. Jo Jo said, Oh Tom Tom. He remembered her and
remembered that she liked to call him Tom Tom, ever since he was little. His brother-in-law
Austin was there, too, crew cut like always. Mom stroked his cheek. Sweet baby, she said. My
darling child. She was bawling. One surprising thing they told him was that Dad had passed on.
When they told him he had been in a coma, and for how long, he just couldn’t believe it.
He never did remember being at Jo Jo’s house or walking out there to U.S. 75. No one ever
mentioned the stolen jewelry. He weighed practically nothing, ribs like banister slats, arms like
Q-Tips. Coach would be mad at him. He had to relearn how to eat, how to control his bodily
functions, and the first time they tried to stand him up, his legs acted like You’ve got to be
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joking. So it was a wheelchair and then a walker. But the doctors were amazed by him.
The doctors said, No permanent mental or physical damage, like he was a freak. The
doctors said, Good thing about a long coma, all your bones are better. The doctors also said, You
have HIV. They sent some woman up to talk to him about that. She had pamphlets.
Tom told one of the doctors about hell. The doctor smiled. When you cycled back to us,
you had a dream, that’s all. He said, You’re not in hell, we’re not that bad, ha ha. They
discharged him.
At Mom’s house, the old dog cried and jumped all over him. His room was just like he
remembered it, except the Public Enemy poster was gone, and the stash box he kept under the
bed was missing too. His dresser was topped by all his old swimming and football trophies.
Jo Jo and Mom asked him if he wanted to go to church with them – the smiley Methodist
place. He sure didn’t want to. No one pressed him. While they were gone, he read Dadaster’s old
fishing magazines. He remembered them fishing for bluegill at East Paw Town Lake. That was a
long time ago.
Jo Jo came over almost every day. She made him things to eat. She would say, Do you
remember when we had bats in the attic and you were scared and I sang you a song? She would
say, Do you remember how I made you bologna sandwiches and we ate them together in the tree
fort? She would say, Do you remember your chemistry kit and how you made the whole house
smell like rotten eggs? And he would say, I remember. One day Jo Jo just looked at him sitting
there at the table, the exact spot where he ate cereal after punching Daddy Dearest, and she said,
I love you. He wondered, Why?
One day, Jo Jo said to Mom, We have to celebrate. They had a big barbecue dinner at Jo
Jo’s on a Saturday, early evening, after the heat backed off. Austin had been babysitting the
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smoker all day, feeding pinion wood into the firebox, and the brisket was so big it could have fed
multitudes. Someone had mowed all the medians, planted flowers, and construction crews were
building on some of the lots. Austin told him how the Coalition routed the Iraqis out of Kuwait,
and about all the sorties he flew. Tom tried to throw the football around with the little possums,
but his arm was so weak it embarrassed him.
Back home, Mom went straight to bed. She said, I just feel like sleeping all the time, it’s
terrible. She did not bother to close her door. Her room went dark and then a preacher’s voice
thrummed from her radio speaker: When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like
those who dreamed.
Tom almost never slept. All he did was think. Sally Johnstone. They had been obsessed
with one another. Then his drugs. After that, he didn’t care one lick about her. She was at
Oklahoma State now, Mom said. He remembered his last football game. He played high as a spy
plane. Ran an interception the wrong way. Coach candled his eyes with a pen light on the team
bus after the game and made him hand over his shoulder pads and helmet right there, in front of
everyone. He thought back further: about Jo Jo’s wedding – her in white, Austin in his uniform,
how Jo Jo made him dance with her, how he wanted to be just like Austin. And further: Dad
teaching him how to tie knots, for the merit badge, mussing his hair, calling him Tommykins.
Tom attended some meetings for people like him. He landed a job at the Pig ‘N Jig on the
town square, a ninety-second walk from the house. They had country acts on weekends and Tom
would listen, from his dishwashing station in the kitchen. Two of the waitresses were nice and
one of them wasn’t even married. He thought, Stick with this a while, hang in there. One
Saturday, Jo Jo and Austin brought the boys there for dinner, and Tom, during his break,
watched his sister and her husband do a little two-stepping through the sawdust there on the
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dance floor while their little possums ate fries. A while later, a stack of dirty plates arrived and
on one of them was a handwritten note, spotted with grease:
Love you, Tom Tom. It was signed, J J.
He peeked out into the dining room, but they were gone.
That night he thought about the time he drove My Lord’s old Lincoln north on 75 all the
way up to the Oklahoma border for no reason, the speedometer topping 110, his buddies
laughing, except Tanner, in the back seat, scared out of his mind, begging him to stop. Tom
would never stop. Or the time on mushrooms, climbing to the top of the water tower, while all
the kids begged him not to. He pissed from the top, climbed back down, hooked up with Darlene
Blackwell, who was stoned and impressed by the stunt. His first screw. What that felt like. Or
another time, his first shot of horse. What that felt like.
He thought, Hang in there.
About a week later, he asked the waitress, the one who wasn’t married, if she would like
to get Dairy Queen with him sometime. Her name was Winnie. She leaned against the kitchen
wall in her pearl-snap shirt, a little sweaty from running from table to table all night, and her
glistening forehead and cheeks seemed to Tom impossibly luminous. She gave him a long look,
like she was trying to figure him out. Then she said OK. He asked, Can you drive? I don’t have a
car. She laughed and said OK to that, too.
On the big day, just a couple hours before Winnie was to pick him up, Mom fell asleep
on the couch and he sat there looking at her. His legs were all jumpy. The house was quiet, wall
clock ticking. The dog was asleep in the hallway, her little legs twitching with dreams. Winnie
didn’t know what he had. He just wanted to talk, to look. That wasn’t true, though. This ain’t
never gonna change.
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Mom slept sad. Sorry, so sorry. He found his backpack, took all his money, a change of
clothes, his great grandfather’s gold pocket watch. He snuck out the back door, hushing the dog,
who tried to follow him, made his way down to the highway, southbound side. Had to be a
hundred degrees today, at least.
Stuck out his thumb.
#
There were patterns, a weary order to things he did not think about but which he obeyed.
The drugs being the most obvious, but also, the places he went, without realizing it. Dead
neighborhoods, street corners colonized by loiterers, circuits of potholed streets and alleys and
empty houses that he came to time and again. He didn’t specifically recall breaking into the little
church before, didn’t remember the slide projector or the microphones, only that something good
happed here, one time, somehow. He came upon the building late in the evening. There was a
white cross fastened above the front door. The church sat on a big lot, which in East Paw would
suggest money but here in Oak Cliff was no prize, only sorry territory no one else wanted. He
remembered something: Back door. Kick. Grab. Smoke.
He went to the back. Three steps up to the door, a single yellowish light bulb above it,
cuffed by frantic moths, their shadows whorled as from a disco ball. Be quick about it: The first
kick, nothing. Weak. He almost tumbled down the stairs. Another kick — the door held and his
foot hurt. Before he could kick it a third time, the door opened, and there stood an enormous
black man, nearly big as the doorway. He was holding something, a book. Tom’s legs wouldn’t
move.
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Two ways we can play it, the man said. Run, or sit down and talk.
Since the man did not mention the police, and since Tom couldn’t seem to run, speak or
fight — he was petrified — he went in. The room had storage cabinets, a sink, a folding table,
everything vaguely familiar from last time. The stuff he stole had been in one of those cabinets.
The man flicked on an overhead light, set his book down on the table. He was blimpish, his short
hair about half gray, and he wore a white button-down shirt, cargo shorts, flipflops. No one can
run in flipflops. Tom was angry at himself — he should have bolted when he had the chance.
Sit, the man said. There was a refrigerator, and the man pulled from it a tray of cold
burritos. Eat, the man said. The book he placed on the table was a Bible. Tom was afraid to take
the food. Eat, the man said again. Want some water? Tom said thanks and when he drank some
and finished the burrito, he said again, Thanks.
So what’s your story? the man asked him.
Super sorry, Tom said. Can I go? Won’t bother you again.
The man studied him for a while and Tom was nervous. The man said: You know about
Jesus?
Tom shrugged. This Texas or not?
You believe?
He’s dead, I guess.
No. Far from it.
I don’t think I believe that.
You will.
When? Why would I?
When you meet him. Here or hereafter. Now or later.
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Tom didn’t have an answer for that.
You sick? the man asked.
Tom shrugged.
You can go, the man said. Come back tomorrow at lunchtime. You’ll meet some people.
We’ll talk some more.
Tom didn’t come back. The next day he panhandled at Dealey Plaza. A tourist with a
New York accent cussed him but a nice lady from Japan or someplace like that gave him five
dollars and talked to him in her language. He couldn’t understand a word, just stood there and
listened, and when she was done, she touched his hand and walked off. He found a guy who sold
him a couple pills. That night, he slept inside a fort of old boxes he gathered near Stemmons
Freeway.
The next day, a Tahoe cruised slowly down the street near Fair Park, where he was
looking for drugs. He could have sworn it was Jo Jo. He hid behind a vandalized mail truck.
A few weeks later, he sold a guitar he took from a guy passed out behind a club in Deep
Ellum, and that same night, with cash in his pocket, he ran across Gabriela outside of a 7-Eleven.
She clutched a microwave burger. Her eyes were barely open, and she didn’t remember him, but
she seemed to take his word for it. She knew a place. The house had mattresses on the floor and
a man with a handgun in one pocket of his sweatpants and rocks to sell in the other. In the
morning, Gabriela was gone and so was the rest of Tom’s money. In the corner, a black boy
younger than him was propped against the wall, head back, eyes open, mouth open. A fly
crawled out of his mouth. Other people staggered around the room.
Tom lurched from the house, squinting in the bright sunshine, backpack over his
shoulder. He did not want to be that boy in the corner, though the boy’s troubles were over. Was
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there such a thing, a state in which there was no trouble? Tom doubted it, wished he was high.
He shambled a little way until he realized where he was. There was the church, cattycorner from
him. The front door was open and without thinking about it, Tom went right to it and stuck his
head in. The big man from before was there, in the main part of the sanctuary, arranging folding
chairs in rows. A pulpit sat on the bare floor. The man was dressed in a nice suit this time. He
turned, gave Tom the once-over. Well look who’s here, he said.
Tom didn’t know what to say. Could I use your bathroom? he asked.
He had bad diarrhea that left him weak. He wetted down his head and washed his face.
The big man was waiting at the door for him, holding a little Styrofoam cup of coffee. Drink it,
he said. The bathroom smelled horrible, but the man said nothing about it. Tom was shaking and
spilled some coffee on the floor. The man paid it no mind. He said, Well, you’re just in time,
have a seat somewhere and we’ll talk after. In walked three black women in dresses and fancy
hats and some young kids in little ties. It was Sunday, apparently.
I should go, Tom said.
No, the man said. Sit down and listen. We’ll talk after. He went to the door to greet
people, stood there like a sentry. There was no escape.
By the time the service started there were maybe fifty people there, almost all of them
women or kids, most dressed all churchy. Nearly everyone was black. Everyone seemed to know
one another. They were hugging and talking. A few vagrants showed up, too, men like Tom who
wore bad clothes and smelled just as bad as Tom. He sat in the back, trying to be invisible in his
metal folding chair. People said hello to him as they walked in but otherwise left him alone.
There was a four-piece band – drums, piano, electric guitar, bass – and the front doors
were left wide open so the sound would spill out into the neighborhood. Everyone stood up, so
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Tom did too. The music was loud. The speakers and amplifiers were crackling, hissing a little,
not good ones, but loud, and Tom wondered what he might get for them. Everyone but Tom was
swaying and clapping, even the other burnouts. They all were singing about fish, so many fish
that the nets broke, and then another song about walls tumbling down and then a third song about
an empty tomb, all of it so loud Tom figured all the crackheads in the whole neighborhood were
woken up by now and smoking and maybe dancing too and here he was stuck out of some weird
sense of politeness.
The big black man was the preacher. He was loud, like the music, and didn’t need a
microphone, though he used one anyway — his voice boomed through the speakers and Tom’s
head hurt. Friends, he said, Jesus is here. He talked for a long time. He said, Friends, Jesus is the
source of life and he gives himself freely, can I get an Amen? And they gave him loud Amens.
He said, Loved ones, there is no other way. He went on and on. Tom never heard anyone talk so
much. At one point, he nodded off, caught himself falling out of his chair.
Then the preacher said, Brothers and sisters, it should come as no surprise that the God
who made you would long to touch you and some people fell right down on the ground like
someone shot them, but no one else seemed worried and then the preacher, raising his arms, so
big and tall that his hands rose above them like tree branches, said The Spirit is among you and
something ran down Tom’s spine and the preacher said, Speak the words that the Spirit gives
you.
Then there was a murmuring in the room, the sound of many words all spoken at once,
none explicable, people turning pell-mell to the people next to them or the people behind them,
some with their heads bowed, others with their chins raised high, hands clasped tightly in
supplication or held aloft, eyes closed or open wide, lips moving like grass in the wind and it
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seemed to Tom that there was a real wind in the room, a wind of words mixed together that
sounded like a storm flying across the city and the words were everywhere and buffeted him like
real wind, and Tom was very afraid, had no words of his own, and had to sit down.
After the service ended, the preacher, sopped with sweat, invited Tom into the room with
the cabinets and refrigerator and offered him a bottle of Coca-Cola.
So now you’ve been to church, he said.
Been before, Tom said.
Yeah?
Grew up in church.
Hmm.
Not like this place, though.
No?
You freaked me out.
The pastor smiled, nodded. He said, You look very sick, son.
Tom burst into tears.
The pastor laid hands on his dirty head, one big hand on each side. His hands were heavy
and strong, yet meek, careful, like Tom was careful, a long time ago, when he was a boy, when
he would hold Mom’s old vase, the one she loved so much, while she dusted the credenza. Tom
cried, infantile, helpless and ashamed. The man held Tom’s head as if it was the most important
thing in the world, a glowing jewel hidden inside a lump of mud and coal. Lord Jesus, he prayed,
Lord of everything alive, Lord of everything that ever lived … on and on like that. When he was
done Tom smelled flowers and he asked, What did you do to me?
The pastor said, Me? Nothing? Not me, no sir. But you are clean, the Lord has told me
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and I can feel it, you’re not an addict anymore.
Tom scoffed, wiped away tears, noticed dust particles floating in the sunlight beams like
living things. He said, What, just like that? Some magic trick? And the pastor said, I myself was
delivered, I myself lived like you once, was a slave like you.
Doubt that, Tom said.
I played college football. Longhorns. Tore up my knee. Had my first taste of pain pills.
That was all it took. All downhill from there.
Yeah? Who laid hands on you?
Just the Holy Spirit. I had the barrel in my mouth when he touched me, spoke my name,
washed me. The Spirit doesn’t need my help, but sometimes I get to witness, and explain, and
rejoice. Like now.
Tom said, Sorry to disappoint you but nothing happened.
Then the pastor said, You’re swept clean but you need to fill up the empty place with the
Word or else the demon comes back with his buddies twice as bad as before. I’ve seen it. Fill
yourself up with the Word, he said, take this Bible and fill yourself up.
Tom wanted to leave. Instead, for some pointless reason, he found himself telling the
pastor about the coma and hell. The pastor listened quietly and when Tom was done, the big man
just shrugged and said, Real hell would be worse than that. He said, Come back tomorrow,
lunchtime, I might be able get you into a safe place I know about. Come back tomorrow, you
will meet others like us. We’ll feed you. Take the Bible.
Tom walked the streets slow, looking around. Somehow, he did not have that raw,
bottomless hunger for a chemical, any chemical. There was no desperation for that oblivious
descent. It was just as the pastor had said. And yet, if he had drugs right now, he would take
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them anyway. He did not believe the pastor or what he said about God. It was too late to
reconcile with fathers. This was a trick of the mind, some type of autosuggestion, making him
see possibilities that were not there. He was ashamed. All his senses were awake. The sunshine,
the wind, the air, they were tangible things, just now, as if they were aware of him, watching
him. The sounds of traffic and distant machinery – the jackhammer, the generator, the beeping of
crosswalk signals — were long ago relegated to meaningless background noise, but now they
were distinct, and their effect on him was revelatory, making him aware of all he had missed.
Birds called to one another. He noticed the texture of tree trunks and the living sprigs of their
branches and even the unfurling of new weeds in the lots he passed, and it felt like loss, all of it.
That night, he returned to the weedy slope near the underpass of Stemmons Freeway and
assembled a new shelter of cardboard, using some scrub oak as a lean-to. He wondered whether
to go back to the church. It had been a long time since he had an obligation or would even
entertain one. It seemed preposterous. For a while, he laid on his back with his head peeking out,
staring up at the stars. The glow of office-tower neon, the streetlamps of the vast city, the
headlights and porchlights of a million heedless strangers polluted the view — man’s lights
hiding the heavenly ones — but he spied them, nonetheless, shimmering fire in a pale, yellow-
gray sky. They were overwhelming, those stars, he could not process them, so he curled up
inside the box and fell asleep.
He woke up burning. Exultant laughter, boys in a pickup truck, driving off, tires spitting
gravel from the shoulder. Pain rose symphonic and he smelled the charcoal lighter fluid and
awful sweetness of his own flesh blistering, oxidizing. He careened away, screaming, swatting
himself. The box fort and his backpack and everything in it went up fast in hot orange licks and
came down slow in flickering gray embers. Tom staggered back toward downtown, his heart
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wild to fly. A patrol car rolled past. The officer gaped at him, stomped the brakes, got out of the
vehicle, unbelieving, and in a loud voice exclaimed the name of the Lord. Tom, smoking like
firewood, collapsed at her feet.
*
On the twenty-first day, Tom heard the doctor tell Jo Jo: The burns aren’t really an issue
at this point. His other conditions …
Jo Jo drove him to his mother’s house in East Paw. New construction everywhere along
the way, new worlds springing up. They arrived in his old neighborhood just at sunset. There
was a For Sale sign out front. When his mother spotted him, she ran to the Tahoe as if young
again, kissing him so many times, overcome, words dissolving into noise, plaintive as a donkey.
Tom said, Mom, Mom.
The house was filled with packing boxes, things in disarray, but smelled like baking.
They had filled his old room with flowers and pictures. There was a new bed, with siderails and
wheels and extra pillows. Painkillers numbed him and he did not hurt anymore.
You’re home now, his mother said. We love you so.
You moving? he asked.
We will never leave you, Jo Jo said.
There was a strange woman there, too, a Mexican lady with a soft smile, wearing blue
scrubs. Hi Tom, she said. I’m Ines. You and I are going to be friends.
They helped him undress and put him in bed. Ines patted him with a wet cloth, starting
with his forehead and moving down, very carefully, as if she might break him. The cloth was
24
oily and cool. A resinous sweetness lingered. The dog was crying to be with him, so Jo Jo lifted
her up to the foot of the bed.
Where are the possums? Tom asked. Where’s Austin?
Jo Jo was quiet for a moment. She said, He’ll come around. He just feels …
It’s OK, Tom said.
Our lost coin, his mother said, brushing tears from her cheeks. Our lost coin.
They sat with him a long time, telling stories: Remember the time little Tom jumped off
the high dive when we took our eye off him? Remember the time Jo Jo had a fever and little Tom
made her pancakes with Frosted Flakes mixed into the batter? Ines laughed softly at that, gave
him more pills. After what seemed a very long time, Jo Jo yawned, weary. She leaned over and
kissed him. I’m sleeping on the couch, she said, I’m right out here if you need me. His mother
kissed him too, smiled, kissed him again. Ines turned out the light and the three of them went out
together. Tom laid very still, listening for them. His mother and Jo Jo talked softly for a while,
out in the living room. Like a child, he listened.
Maybe he slept. At some point, a man’s voice, gentle and deep, came from his mother’s
radio, and he strained to hear as one might listen to a friend approaching: Three times I was
beaten with rods, once I was pelted with stones … in danger from rivers, in danger from bandits
… in danger in the city, in danger in the country … I have known hunger and thirst … I have
been cold and naked …
Street talk. He knew it, squalled that way himself, many times, yet somehow he could not
relate to the words, secure in this house that withstood time, survived every storm and even him.
His mother and sister were just on the other side of the wall, he could feel their presence and was
reassured by it. The old dog slept at his feet. He noticed, too, in silhouette by the corner, that the
25
nice woman was in the room with him once again, watching over him. Surrounded by love, he
wanted for nothing, and his heart, which was tired from its journey, stopped.
THE END
26
The car
By Esther Sadoff
I overshot myself. I was screeching keys and spinning wheels. The car was
turning too fast.
I opened the doors and ran out. I was soundless, motionless. I was
consuming speed and sound. Sometimes escape is the only logical
conclusion. The brain hardens itself, acclimates to speed and sound so that
they are transformed into stillness and silence. I was standing on the side of
the road. I was spent, the sound and speed were reaching in and I could
almost see myself as if I were something that could be held. Please don’t say
the word deserve. No one ever knows what it is they truly deserve. If you
asked me then, I would have said I deserved nothing.
27
28
Fame, Friendship and Flower Anatomy
By Subramani Mani
I received this letter in the mail a few weeks ago.
Dear Ramu
You might have heard about the Jnanpith award being conferred on me for my novel
‘Chinna Chinna Aasaikal, Oru Chittu Kuruvi Chinthanaikal—Small Small Longings, a
Sparrow’s Musings’. After much internal deliberation and debate I’ve coaxed myself to
accept the award. The function will be held on the fifteenth of next month at the Taj hotel,
Delhi. As my dearest friend, going back to our childhood days, I would be thrilled if you
could come over and share the space and time with me.
Your childhood buddy
Vasu
Jnanpith, standing for knowledge-feet, is the highest literary award in India. It is awarded to the
author of a book published in the previous twenty years recommended by the award selection
committee. The prize had been announced a week earlier and I had dialed up Vasu multiple
times to congratulate him. But I always got either a busy signal or a ringtone. There was some
speculation in the media that he might decline the award. Of late, Vasu had become extremely
critical of the Kashmir policy of the central government.
I flew into Delhi the morning of the biggest evening in Vasu’s life. He received me at the airport
and we headed to the Taj hotel where he was staying in a suite. After dropping my bags, we both
headed to the hotel restaurant for brunch. Vasan picked a secluded corner table and we sat down
29
to chat. A waiter came and served us Darjeeling tea, and pointing to the large buffet spread said
to us, help yourself.
Vasan spotted some dignitaries he recognized, seated on the far side, and waved to them. Then
turning his head towards me, and looking into my eyes, asked—How have you been? It has been
almost ten years since we met in Chennai for Nirmal and Nila’s wedding reception. Time just
rushes past as if you are in a long-haul flight and you don’t feel any movement; it is all still, and
suddenly you find yourself touching down in another city in another time zone, half-way across
the globe.
I noticed right away that certain things had changed with Vasan. He was graying but he hadn’t
cared to color his hair. And, even though it was a big day for him he wasn’t putting on any airs.
He didn’t even appear very jubilant. I had assumed he would be ecstatic about the recognition,
notwithstanding some media coverage about his hesitation surrounding the award. It was clear
from his facial expression and demeanor that he seemed conflicted, and wavering. This is a
much-mellowed avatar of Vasan from the Chennai meet, I thought. I knew fame and friendship
can intersect in various ways. It had collided unexpectedly then, preventing Vasan and I from
meeting each other in person again, until today.
He seemed to be in no hurry for anything. As I watched him sitting casually, sunk deep in his
seat, and taking little sips of tea, slowly, from his cup, my thoughts wandered to the Vasan of my
childhood universe. He appeared to me to go decades back in time, becoming a kid again.

---

My first introduction to Vasan happened in the elementary school playground during recess. He
and his buddies were playing cricket which I knew nothing about. It was the first day of our
fourth-grade class in Fort elementary school. Vasu, as everyone used to call him affectionately,
30
was an all-rounder—he could bat, bowl, and field well. Sometimes, he would stand behind the
wickets too. He was an opening batsman, bowled both pace and spin as best as any seven-year-
old can, and fielded at the slips.
Until fourth grade, I had lived in Delhi with my uncle and attended an elementary school there.
In Delhi there was no cricket either in our school, or in our neighborhood. We played hockey and
football; both were popular with the kids. The rules of both the games were also simple to
understand and follow. Basically, the goal was to score goals to win the game, easy for kids to
follow. Then my uncle retired from the army; we all moved south to Trivandrum, a small city
more than two thousand five hundred kilometers from Delhi. We settled down in the Fort
subdivision of the city.
It is difficult for seven-year-olds to play any game that requires good motor skills—hand-eye
coordination, muscle strength, quick reflexes, and an ability to perform short sprints and turns.
Vasan was tall and big for his age but I was one of the smallest kids in my class. It made playing
games even more challenging for me. But we all tried to compensate for our lack of strength and
stamina with our interest, enthusiasm, and motivation.
I started out as a fielder. I could run quickly to collect the ball coming my way but couldn’t
throw the ball to the bowler or the wicket keeper from the depths of the field. So, a long-on or a
long-off, or even a deep mid-on or a deep mid-off fielding position wouldn’t work for me. Vasan
accommodated me in the second slip position near him. He would always be the first slip when
he wasn’t bowling, and when he bowled, I would move to the first slip. Vasan was the reigning
captain of our class team when we played against other classes. My batting and bowling were a
joke initially; I couldn’t score a run or take a wicket unless I got extremely lucky. But I found
playing cricket fun, and Vasan patiently taught me and coached me during class recess, and later
31
on in the playground near our homes. We stayed two blocks apart and played pretty much every
day in the neighborhood park grounds in the evenings. He trained me in both offensive strokes
and defense, and also in spin bowling, mostly off-spin. Over a period of a few months, I learned
the rudiments of batting, spin-bowling, and catching the ball in the air. However much I tried I
couldn’t execute any pace bowling.
In Delhi, I had learned to ride only the tricycle. With three wheels it remained stable on the
ground and I had no problems riding it inside the house. Vasan already knew how to ride a
bicycle. He owned one but it was bigger for me. We rented a smaller twelve-inch bike, and he
taught me how to ride it. There were no training wheels for bikes in those days. Vasan and
another friend SK would hold the bike for me and walk along on both sides, as I pedaled, until I
learned how to balance it, and pedal straight ahead keeping good body posture. In the process I
fell down a few times but escaped with minor bruises. By the start of the fifth grade when we all
moved to Central High School near the East Fort, Vasan had become my best friend by a mile.
In fifth grade there were three class divisions based on the medium of instruction, the language
in which science and social studies courses were taught. Division A was the Malayalam medium,
division B the Tamil medium, and division C was the English medium. There were conflicts,
competitions, and contradictions among the three divisions. Apart from this there was the
traditional bullying. A and B divisions had also a few students who had been detained in the
same class for an extra year or even more. Naturally they were older, and bigger for the grade
they were currently in. They could easily bully kids like me who were much smaller. Fights
would break out intermittently, but Vasan was always there for me and protected me from the
bullies. He had a knack for dealing with guys even bigger than him. He never picked up a
physical fight with them but somehow managed to give the impression that it is not a good idea
32
to mess with him; it could turn out badly for them. Later on, I came to know that Vasan’s older
brother was a trained boxer. A local goonda had tried to rob him by pulling out a knife. Vasan’s
brother punched him so hard that the rogue fell down and cracked his skull. The news had spread
through the town by word of mouth. But I never asked Vasan about it though.
There was this fifth grader who used to taunt me frequently. He was a bigger guy and I always
tried my best to avoid him. Trying to pick up a fight, he cornered me one day and said in a
mocking tone—Your mom is so very cute; I want to date her. I was embarrassed, and my face
reddened. I suddenly saw Vasan approaching him. I thought he was going to punch the bully but
Vasan just stood face to face, raised his voice and said—You can date my mom; she is not very
cute but will pick you up from our school tomorrow in the stinky van which she uses to transport
pigs and sheep. And he continued, she will then knock all your teeth off. Your permanent teeth
will not come back but the milk teeth will be replaced eventually. You will look so strange that
you will be a good replacement for the Amazon forest monkey, sporting a juvenile face, our city
zoo lost recently. My mom is a zookeeper, and she will put you in that cage which has just fallen
vacant. When little kids visit the zoo, they will have lots of fun with you sitting in the cage there,
as the cornered big-bully. Saying this Vasan took my hand and led me away. The bully-kid did
not show up in class for a whole week, and never ever crossed my path after that.
Vasan had quickly learned how to swim in the Olympic size public pool that had come up in
town recently. His older brother had taught him. Vasan took me to the pool one day offering to
teach me swimming. I believe this was when we were in seventh grade. The shallow end of the
pool was three feet deep, and the deep end eighteen feet. I was four and a half feet tall at that
time, and Vasan was almost five feet then. He led me to the deep end, asked me to wait on the
curb, and jumped into the water. Anchoring in one corner of the pool he took a deep breath. Then
33
holding his breath and as if digging up the water with both palms he went down, touched the
floor of the pool, and then pushing down with his hands bubbled up to the surface, elegantly, like
a porpoise. He then told me it was my turn and asked me to get into the water feet first, hanging
on to the curb. He instructed me to keep to the wall, go down, touch the bottom of the pool, and
come up as he did. I took a deep breath and did as I was told. Halfway up I felt breathless but
somehow managed to keep my cool, and bubble up. But I got scared. My swimming lessons with
him ended then and there. But we continued to be best friends.
Vasan had a good voice and could sing Malayalam, Tamil, and Hindi movie songs with ease and
grace. He also started taking lessons in Carnatic music, vocal, and also the violin. I also tried my
hand in violin but gave up quickly; I didn’t have the talent or motivation to continue. After a year
of training, Vasan’s guru encouraged him to give a performance in the All-India Radio station.
Vasan gave a memorable performance, and he became a celebrity in school.
For athletics we could earn one star, two stars, or three stars based on our performance in one
hundred and two hundred meters sprint, high jump, long jump, and cricket ball throw. We started
training together and by the end of six months Vasan was running one hundred meters under
thirteen seconds, two hundred under twenty-five, clearing four and a half feet in high jump and
fifteen feet in long jump. He even made some freak eighteen-feet long jumps. He could also
throw the cricket ball over sixty meters. These performance measures placed him close to a two-
star level. My timings and distances were much more modest—one hundred meters under fifteen
seconds, two hundred meters below thirty seconds, three and a half feet high jump, and twelve
feet clearance for long jump. All these would have qualified me for one star if I could also throw
a cricket ball over fifty meters. However much I tried, I could only clear thirty meters, a really
poor performance. By the time we entered high school he had earned two stars while I had none.
34
During middle school and early years of high school, Vasan and I walked three kilometers each
way to the YMCA in the heart of the city to play ping pong. We also got about ten minutes of
coaching two days a week for our efforts. Here was one game where I could really compete with
Vasan and beat him frequently.
We were good students and loved science and mathematics. We studied together for tests and got
together to work out challenging math problems, and pursue complex science projects. We
would go to our science teacher’s house over the weekend with questions and she
enthusiastically encouraged us to take up difficult competitive projects. During one of our visits,
she plucked a red champerty flower from her well-kept flower garden in the front yard where we
were standing and chatting. In class she had been teaching us the parts of a flower. She started
discussing and pointing to the different parts of the flower—petals, stamens, and pistil. Flower
anatomy intrigued and excited us, and Vasan started asking all sorts of questions about
pollination and such. Suddenly the teacher’s adolescent teen daughters also barged into the
conversation, the learning dynamics changed, and our excitement and animation grew. The girls
started giggling instantaneously. We would look at the flower parts and exchange glances with
the girls. The teacher was not particularly amused by the unintended change in the learning
environment; she shooed her daughters away from the front yard, literally forcing them back
inside the house. Naturally, Vasan and I were disappointed and the girls too we hoped.
On our way back from the science teacher’s house I noticed that Vasan was in high spirits with
red streaks and reddish hues radiating all over his face. Suddenly he started reciting—
Stamens and Pistil living together in the same big red hibiscus flower
What a wonderful life!
I was also initially elated but when he started repeating the lines intermittently all the way back
35
to our homes, it started feeling like the replay of an advertisement heard frequently on the radio.
In school, during class recess the next day, Vasan showed me a poem he had written. I can only
recall the following lines—
From her flowering, sprouting bust
Emerges her long slender neck and giggling face
Stamens and Pistil living together in the same big red hibiscus flower
What a wonderful life!
Vasan and the science teacher’s cute teen daughter
Living together in the same little red hideout house
What a wonderful life!
…
Flower anatomy, and the mechanics of pollination was all the sex education we got in school in
those days. In high school we won some state awards which brought recognition to our public
school, and kept our teachers happy.
With some of our classmates and neighborhood pals we played some strange but interesting
games that seem to have almost gone extinct these days. They are neither represented in
Olympics nor being played by the city kids in this day and age. One is hide and seek which we
used to play with gusto in the neighborhood park. It is a natural game which doesn’t require any
equipment. Though I don’t see children playing it in public spaces, my guess is that it is still
being played inside homes and backyards. I don’t see anybody playing with marbles or tops
either, these days. We used to play these a lot in our younger times. They have practically
vanished from the outdoor life of the town kids.
Two other games which I am nostalgic about are the stick and spindle, and the seven tiles. They
36
were never popular outside my state in those days, and sadly, I don’t even see children of my
hometown play these games now. The stick and spindle we shaped from a tree branch and a
piece of soft wood. The stick would be typically a foot and a half to two feet in length and about
an inch in diameter. The spindle is about six inches in length, two to three inches in diameter,
and tapered at the ends. You could say the game is a poor kid’s version of golf and baseball
married together, though we had never heard of golf or baseball growing up. An oval-shaped
hole is dug in the ground and the spindle is placed across it. With the stick the hitter digs out the
spindle and sends it flying. If a fielder catches it in the air, you are declared out. Otherwise, the
fielder retrieves it and throws it towards the hole which you can defend and bat with the stick.
The runs are measured by spindle lengths. When the fielder manages to throw it into the hole,
the hitter is declared out. Otherwise, the hitter can tap on one end of the spindle with the stick to
make it jump, and then hit it in the air. The game can be played by two teams like cricket or
baseball or as an individual game—the hitter versus the others as fielders. Vasan used to be quite
good at it; I wasn’t.
The seven tiles game is played between two teams using a tennis ball and seven flat circular or
rectangular tile pieces which can be stacked on top of each other to make a tower. The tiles can
be shaped out of wooden or ceramic pieces or stone tiles. Once the tower is set up one player of a
team throws the ball from a set distance at the tower, trying to dislodge the tiles and reassemble
the tower. In the meantime, if an opponent team member catches the ball, throws the ball and hits
you, then you are declared out. Vasan and I enjoyed playing this game very much.
Chess didn’t fascinate us but carroms did. Teaming up, Vasan and I aced the school-wide
carroms tournament, and won the first prize. Vasan deserves more credit for our success.
It would appear strange that most of my classmates chose engineering or the medical trajectory
37
after high school. Vasan went to an out-of-state engineering school and I joined the medical
school in town. Vasan’s family soon moved to a different city. Sadly, it was the end of our
childhood and adolescent friendship as we knew it.
After medical school I went out of the country for further studies and training. Whenever I
visited my home town, which happened infrequently, I heard that Vasan’s extracurricular career
had taken off. He was getting recognition for his musical talent, and becoming known as a
singer, songwriter, music composer, and novelist. I thought of visiting him but for some reason
or the other it kept getting postponed, and just didn’t happen. By that time, he had become a
celebrity, and the thought somehow entered my mind that it was probably not a good idea to
bother him and rekindle the old friendship. What if he just brushed me off politely because of his
busy schedule? Or, he might be moving in a totally different artsy and musical circle that he
would no longer care about a rusty old friend from his very early school days. These were the
thoughts that were roiling me, and I kept putting off contacting him though I very much wanted
to be face to face with him, and exchange some old banter. Unfortunately, it never materialized.

---

There comes a time in one’s life when you can no longer afford to continue to procrastinate, and
keep on postponing getting in touch with or meeting old friends or extended family members.
Our son Nirmal’s wedding reception was to be arranged in Chennai as the bride Nila was from
that city. I came to know from childhood friends that Vasan was settled in Chennai, and a couple
of those old buddies were in touch with him.
An era had gone by. After many decades of leaving our old school I cold-called Vasan one early
cloudy morning. I was sitting at my dining table with my usual cup of Darjeeling tea. He picked
up the phone on the very first ring, but sounded sleepy as though he was just waking up. I
38
addressed him Vasu like in the old days, and we chatted as though nothing had changed, and
time stood still like a big rock fossil. We reminisced mostly about old times, talked about our
respective families, but kept his celebrity life out of the conversation. He probably assumed that I
knew all about his musical and writerly accomplishments, which was only partially true. I invited
him to the wedding reception, and he promised to come.
He came by himself, chauffeured, in a BMW sport utility vehicle. He had at least three inches on
me and a head full of hair. He is the same old Vasu, I tried to tell myself. My hairline had
receded but he told me I hadn’t changed much. We hugged and sat down in a corner of the lobby
to chat. I noticed that the eyes of the hotel staff were trained on him. Soon the manager came
down, greeted him, and asked if we would like to have tea, coffee, juice or snacks. We settled for
plain water.
We mostly dwelt on the present, his present. Over the phone, before we had seen each other, we
talked mostly about the past. I was surprised by his current calibration regarding his rank,
position, and status in the music and art world. When I gently probed, he rated himself numero
uno as a composer and musician, and as a great writer too. Catching possibly a ray of surprise in
my facial expression, he added—it is my honest evaluation. People started noticing him and
came closer. But the feeling developed in me that he had acquired the G-O-A-T syndrome which
made me somewhat uneasy. I knew fame and humility rarely walk together under the same
umbrella. It was painful to have that feeling reinforced by your childhood friend.
A queue was forming mostly of young women looking for autographs. Some of them were
carrying Vasu’s latest best-selling novel, Chila Nerangalil Chila Paravaikal, Some Moments,
Some Birds, for his author signature. Their faces radiated joy, curiosity, admiration, and
anticipation.
39
I knew it was time to leave him alone and let him bask in his fan adulation. I was almost tempted
to ask him—Vasu, do you remember the time we went to our science teacher’s house and
learned flower anatomy in the presence of her giggling teen daughters? I didn’t ask; I also
needed to attend to other guests. He quickly took leave after the reception got over.
We never met face to face after that for a decade. And we rarely discussed the present. We talked
over the phone many times—about our old school, about the pranks we played on our teachers,
about growing up, about the games we enjoyed, about flower anatomy, and about all the other
shared good old times, rekindling in the process the small and large, the significant and
insignificant, events and happenings dotting the events-calendar of our decade-long, intense
childhood and youth friendship. But on some days, I felt that it is because of my jealousy that I
was reluctant to meet him in person, and chat with him face to face.

---

Sitting in the Taj restaurant mostly we reminisced about our childhood and school years. We
talked about cricket, seven tiles, and stick and spindle. Holding up his palms for a hi-five and
meeting my hand, he said, those were the best years of my life Ramu; there is nothing more
magical in life than that. The innocence, the freedom, the fear of our parents and authority
created a bond between us, and our other childhood friends that I have never been able to
replicate later in life.
You’re a writer, a novelist of great repute, and now a recipient of the Jnanpith award. What do
you think is the basis of this old friendship, our childhood friendships? I asked him.
The brunch was winding down. Vasan looked around and suggested—Let us walk across to the
ITC hotel lobby and continue the conversation there.
It was a nice lobby and much less crowded than the restaurant at the Taj. He picked a table close
40
to the window through which the Taj was visible. The table was also just across from the lobby
bar. I looked at my watch; it was almost two in the afternoon. We have just about two hours to
shower and get dressed for the big function, I reminded him. Looking outside through the
window and then turning his head towards the bar, there is still plenty of time, Ramu, he said
slowly. The casual and dismissive way in which he said this alarmed me. I just sat down
watching him.
Let us order a bottle of red wine in celebration of our childhood friendship, he declared. The
bartender brought a bottle of Bordeaux Margaux blend, and poured some in two glasses. Raising
his glass towards mine and looking at me with some sadness in his eyes he remarked—cheers to
our lifelong friendship. Cheers, I then repeated.
See Ramu, he started, paused for a few seconds as though gathering his thoughts, took two quick
sips from his wine glass, and continued. All children have some talent and a lot of potential. The
expression and differentiation, the flowering—all that is still to come. So, in childhood we were
all in the same boat. We all had to adjust to our parents’ whims, try to have fun in class without
annoying and provoking our teachers too much, and do our best to study and learn. It was still a
level playing field even though there were differences in terms of family wealth, caste, and
religion. But we all played together, got along well most of the time, fought some of the time, but
quickly reconciled. We played, learned new things, our bodies grew up and our bonds
strengthened. But after high school we all got scattered, like a boatload of migrants after making
a discreet landing in a new country, and everything changed.
He took a few sips and filled up his glass again emptying the bottle in the process. Shouldn’t we
be going? I asked.
Wait Ramu, let’s chat some more, and then we will see, he said casually and without much
41
conviction. I could see where he was headed.
He beckoned the waiter and ordered another bottle of wine. He took a few more sips from his
glass and poured some from the new bottle into his glass and mine. Both of us remained silent
for some time. I looked at him. He seemed lost in thought.
I am skipping it, he announced abruptly. I knew it was coming.
Are you sure? I asked. Absolutely, he said, nodding his head. Though I was expecting it, a feeling
of sadness crept over me.
“This is how the system works. Take startup companies for example. They’re innovative in the
beginning. Once they have enough investors they stop taking risks. Their loyalty is towards the
investors. Likewise, a writer starts cultivating her readers and the writer’s loyalty pendulum
swings towards them. A form of self-censorship creeps in, knowingly or unknowingly. And
when readership increases, unfortunately, arrogance also sneaks in. I knew I became pretentious;
you might also have noticed that”.
Vasu was looking into my eyes while saying all this. I remained silent. Then mulling over what
he said, I chimed in.
“You were vocal about Kashmir and Palestine; you were not keeping quiet, Vasu”.
“Yes, of course. Kashmir and Palestine are close to my heart. I didn’t want to keep mum on both
of those issues”. He said this with emotion and conviction.
But I sensed where he was headed. He had always maintained a diplomatic silence on the
controversial Ram temple construction. Taking a long deep breath, he continued.
“See Ramu, I cannot get over this. You surely can guess. I kept quiet on the Ram temple issue. I
was afraid of losing many readers. The Ram temple was built with so much fanfare over the
remains of a mosque―after demolishing and burying a historic mosque that had been standing
42
for half a millennium. It is like bulldozing your neighbor’s house after picking up a quarrel, and
building your second home there evicting the neighbor from his land and home. A writer needs
to stand up for what she believes in”.
“I agree with your sentiment. But it wasn’t easy to oppose the Ram temple project, Vasu. There
was mass hysteria in favor, and then the supreme court also weighed in, supporting the temple
construction on land where the mosque had stood for five centuries before its willful destruction
by Hindu fanatics”.
Vasu didn’t want to be coddled and mollified.
“A writer should show courage; she needs to write with honesty, and express what she believes
in”.
I could see that Vasu was getting agitated. It was clear he was upset with himself. I hadn’t
expected him to be this contrite, and regretful.
“It is okay Vasu. You don’t need to be this hard on yourself”.
I didn’t want Vasan to continue with his self-flagellation. It was becoming painful for me to
witness it. Slowly, he calmed down.
We sat there chatting for a long time. The afternoon gave way to evening which paved the way
for the night to creep in. We had the bar food for dinner and a few more drinks.
The bright full Moon was visible through our window. It appeared to be climbing up the sky
slowly. I looked at Vasu. He seemed to be lost in some deep thought. Jerking his head like a
sparrow after a short drizzle, he perked up, and moved to the edge of his chair. Placing his two
elbows on the table and cupping his face with both his hands, he met my gaze. I could see
sadness coating his eyes like a feathery cloud moving across the face of a full Moon. His face
seemed soaked with pain and regret like the face of an honest and ethical person who had failed
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to keep his promise to himself or herself; his moonlit face now looked to me like a crumpled wet
washcloth. I had never seen him with that type of face presentation.
He straightened himself up, and seemed to recover some. Slapping his head on both sides gently
with both hands as though atoning for something, he started again.
“I am seriously thinking of moving back to Trivandrum. That is where my heart is, (he took a
deep breath, craned his neck towards me, and holding my right hand with both of his hands, he
continued) and where my unforgettable childhood memories are”.
His face was flushed, his hands were warm and sweaty and I could hear the thumping of his
heart. He continued.
“You tend to be hot-headed in your younger years. When you hit a half-century and keep
scoring, adding years to your life beyond that age-marker, you get to see many things clearly.
There is no greater joy than spending time with your childhood friends. And it will be merrier if
it happens in our hometown, where we all grew up together, and where our old memories are
curated, preserved, and stored—in classrooms, hallways, the school playgrounds, the trees on
campus, and the town plazas”.
“Take your time Vasu. You don’t need to rush your move back to Trivandrum”. I didn’t want
him to make any hasty decisions, then have second thoughts, and end up regretting the return to
our hometown.
Vasan had seen the right green-turn-signal at the peak of his success and fame. It was a great
thing, I thought; I could not have hoped for anything better. The lobby had emptied out; we were
the only two people still seated there. It was past midnight and the bartender was closing up his
shop. The full Moon now shone on our faces with maximum brightness through the window. His
face seemed relaxed now as though the Moon had somehow ironed out his crumpled face.
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I had one last question for the night. Turning towards Vasan, and with a serious expression on
my face I asked him—Do you remember our visit to our science teacher’s house and the flower
anatomy lesson she gave us in her front garden?
Vasan didn’t even blink before answering with an all-knowing smile now adorning his face,
illuminated fresh by the moonlight. All I remember is that both of us had turned fifteen; the
teacher’s teen daughters had suddenly joined us. They were thirteen and fourteen I think; both
the girls were looking really hot, Ramu.
I immediately knew I had gotten back my old edition of Vasan.
Alice Munro conveys through one of her stories that in a person’s life there are places where
something happened, and then there are all the other places. And I thought, there is your
hometown which holds many places where certain things happened in your life, and then there
are all the other towns of the universe. Moreover, your hometown is also the nest of your
childhood friends with whom you shared secrets nobody else is privy to. There is no better place
than your hometown to move back to, late in your life, I reasoned. I had no argument with
Vasan’s decision to move back to Trivandrum. But I also did not want him to make an abrupt
move bulldozing anything and everything he had built in Chennai. He could for instance split his
time between Chennai and Trivandrum initially, and later make the final move. These were my
thoughts as I soon started counting down the days to welcome Vasu back to our hometown for
his initial visit, and immerse ourselves in our old play nest, filled with memories of our bygone
years which come to life, and start dancing, first in your head, and then in front of you, as you
stroll through your hometown with your childhood friends in tow.

---

45
46
Actor-Dreamers
By James Croal Jackson
Michael says actors are delusional–
the ones who star in poorly-scripted
films, over and over. How can they
live as soft-boiled eggs? I want to believe
in excellence, too. That love of craft–
steering ships– can navigate
to where one needs to go,
even when relentlessly punched
in the ring.
I, too, am weak, having
said the words of Winkler
for free
just to get on screen.
And the cost was
stock-video explosions
that were copyright
violations.
But to live a dream
(and dream
I do)
one must wake up
and say the words
to anyone who listens.
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48
Aunt Alma’s Flower
by Scott Bassis
I received the call in the afternoon, right as I returned from lunch. It was from Jerry’s
secretary. I wondered if Jerry was sleeping with her, if this was who he had left Aunt Alma for.
She said that Jerry hadn’t heard from Alma in a while. He was worried about her. That
provoked a skeptical huff from me. Would it be possible if I checked in on her? I said “sure,”
then hung up. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from Alma in a while either.
The last time was about a month ago. She had called me while I was waiting to audition.
She asked if I knew about applying for health insurance. I was next up, so I told her I would call
her back. I didn’t. I didn’t get the part, as usual. Deflated, I didn’t feel like talking to anyone.
Life in New York wasn’t what I had imagined it would be. When I arrived three years
ago, fresh out of college, I had a plan. Alma was part of it. She would cover my rent so I could
focus on making it as an actor. I left Encina, Texas on March 1st of 2020. The coronavirus was
hardly discussed on the news, China’s problem.
Before I even got headshots, the New York theatre scene was shut down. Not a week into
the nationwide quarantine, Jerry announced he was in love with someone else and moved out to
be with her. Alma, who hadn’t worked in thirty years, found herself unable to pay her own rent,
let alone mine.
Jerry had no obligation to support her; they weren’t married, had no children. She looked
for work halfheartedly. She was too accustomed to sleeping in: “Ten hours a night is why I’ve
never needed a facelift, Cariño.” She sold off her jewelry and Jerry’s Rolexes to get by.
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My situation was just as precarious. I worked temp jobs, living in a tiny, Bronx studio
apartment. Even once performances resumed, I couldn’t get acting gigs. Everyone in the theatre
world seemed to already know each other. Waylaid by the pandemic, it had no room for
outsiders.
I didn’t land a permanent job until three weeks ago, in the “coding unit” of a corporate
law firm. “Coding” involved classifying seized emails by sender, recipient and subject matter. It
was as dull as it sounded.
I tried calling Alma every hour, hiding my phone under my desk. She didn’t pick up. At
five thirty, I bolted. I ran the four blocks to the subway station. I dove onto the “1” train as the
doors closed. In my gut, I knew something was wrong.
I had felt a connection with Alma since childhood, even if she hadn’t been around much.
She only visited during the holidays, bringing expensive gifts for me, my siblings and cousins.
I had heard stories about her from my relatives, who judged her vain and immoral.
Grandpa Perez, a strict disciplinarian, had mysteriously doted on her, no doubt due to her beauty.
In high school, she was caught shoplifting Revlon lipstick from a drugstore. Granda Perez let her
off with a light smack, and she was even allowed to keep it after he paid for it.
She dropped out of Sacred Heart College, running off to New York. Working there as a
secretary, she fell in love with her boss, Jerry Rizzo, though he was twice her age and married.
“Are you happy being the other woman?” my mother, Delia, once asked her. I was nine
years old. Alma was waiting for the car service to take her to the airport.
“At least I didn’t marry our father,” Alma remarked, throwing a pointed glance at Hector,
Delia’s husband, my father. Hector raised his fist: his reaction to any slight.
“And he has a great lawyer,” Alma noted coolly. Hector stomped to the couch and sat,
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fuming silently until the car pulled up. I had never seen my father cowed before. I had never seen
a woman so strong, so fabulous.
I got off at Christopher Street. Alma had lived in the same West Village apartment since
she was Jerry’s mistress, before his divorce. I recognized the concierge on duty, Raul. Alma
often tried, humiliatingly, to set us up, never quite believing Raul’s assertions that he was
straight.
“¿Pedro, como estas?” he asked. I hurried to the elevator, giving only an awkward smile.
My hands shook as I rang her doorbell. I waited. I called her cell phone again. There was
still no answer. I wondered if she had a landline. After looking her up on Google, I found the
number. She picked up.
“What?” she said.
“It’s Pedro,” I said, elated.
“Who?” she asked.
“Your nephew,” I said. I assumed she was joking.
“Oh, right,” she said. She sounded unsure.
“Let me in, okay?” I pled. I heard her panting.
“I can’t.” She whimpered. “Just go home, Cariño.” Cariño was what she had called me
since I was little. It heartened me, slightly, that now she seemed to remember me.
I paused for a minute, unsure what to do. I was hesitant to knock on a neighbor’s door. I
was olive-skinned. Slim and baby-faced, I resembled a teenager. People tended to be wary of me.
“Irene has a key, in 2F,” she reflected. “She waters my plants when I’m away.”
“I’ll be back,” I promised.
I ran to the stairwell, then down to the second floor. I rang the doorbell to 2F. There was
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no response. Desperate, I rang it again and again. A door opened. It wasn’t 2F; it was 2G.
“I can help you?” a man asked, with an accent.
Thanks to my obsession with Emily in Paris, I could tell that he was French. He wore a
spiffy, paisley dress shirt. He seemed to be in his early forties, with salt and pepper hair. He was
thin. He had a long, Roman nose. His eyes were a striking, pale blue.
“I think my aunt’s hurt. I have to get her key from Irene,” I said.
“One moment,” he said. He disappeared into his apartment. “A young man is at your
door!” he shouted. I heard faint talking. He returned to the hall.
“She comes. She doesn’t hear the doorbell when she’s on her terrace smoking,” he
explained.
“Thanks.” I was so grateful I could kiss him. That he resembled Ralph Fiennes in his
prime didn’t hurt.
“My pleasure. I am Theo,” he said. Before I could give my name, the door to 2F opened.
“Yeah?” an old woman in cat eye glasses croaked. She was seemingly Alma’s best friend
in the building. I pictured them laughing and gossiping over a bottle of wine.
“I think Alma’s hurt. She said you have her key,” I said. Her brow furrowed with
concern.
“Hold on.” She went inside her apartment and returned with a set of keys. The keychain
was shaped like a rose. Alma loved flowers and plants.
“You’re Pedro, her nephew,” she said. I nodded.
“Pedro,” Theo thoughtfully repeated to himself.
“I’ll bring it right back,” I said.
“Don’t bother. She gives me a set each time she travels. I must have a dozen somewhere.
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She gets so worried about her damn plants,” she said.
Key in hand, I walked to the elevator. It came right away. After I got on, I saw Theo
running towards me, seemingly to help. I couldn’t find the door open button in time. It was just
as well. Alma would hate being seen without makeup and elegant clothes, especially by a
handsome man.
Upon entering her apartment, I knew the situation was dire. My eyes drew to the living
room’s huge, bay windows. She kept most of her plants there, on the sill and on two floating
shelves. Her plants were all wilted. Dried leaves littered the floor.
“Alma?” I called out.
“Bedroom,” she replied hoarsely. As I approached, a rank, ammonia-like odor hit my
nose. I expected the worst. Still, I was shocked by what I saw when I opened the door.
She lay flat on her bed, the phone receiver beside her. She clutched her stomach, which
was swollen to the size of a watermelon. She looked pregnant, but she couldn’t be. She was fifty-
six years old. Her eyes were glassy. Her coffee-colored skin had turned a yellowish orange, like
the flesh of a mango.
“I haven’t been feeling well,” she said. This struck me as an absurd understatement.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” I took out my phone.
“No!” she shouted. She squirmed around frantically, managing to hoist herself up to a
sitting position.
“I have no insurance,” she cried.
“They’ll get you on Medicaid,” I assured her. Until my current job, I was on Medicaid
myself.
“Really?” She sighed, relieved. I held her arm to brace her as she lay back down.
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I suddenly remembered the call from a month ago. Alma had asked about insurance. She
must have been starting to feel ill. If I had just called back, this might have been avoided.
“I look gross, don’t I? I’ve gotten so fat,” she said. I wondered if she was joking. She
wasn’t. Hurt shone in her eyes.
“Maybe it’s a tumor,” I reflected.
“Maybe.” She grinned, seeming to actually prefer that explanation.
I stepped into the hall to call the ambulance, so I could describe Alma’s condition without
upsetting her. When I returned to the bedroom, she was sitting upright, naked from the waist
down. She readied herself to stand. I leapt to her before she crashed to the floor.
“Rest until they get here,” I implored.
“Need pants,” she grunted. She pointed to the bottom drawer of her dresser.
I brought her a pair of sweatpants. She struggled to raise her leg even an inch. I slowly
rolled the pantlegs up as she winced in pain. Once the sweatpants were on, she lay back down
and closed her eyes, exhausted. She was snoring in under a minute. She started awake when the
doorbell rang.
There were two paramedics. One was a bearded redhead. The other looked Latino and
had an overbite. I led them to her.
Redbeard knelt beside her. She scooted back, agitated. He asked her if she knew where
she was. She nodded. He asked her what day it was. She didn’t answer. He asked her who the
president was. She said, “the orange, asshole Cheeto,” which prompted a chuckle. She was
wrong, though. “Biden is president,” he reminded her. Distraught, she threw me a fretful glance.
“Can I talk to you alone?” Overbite asked me. I followed him into the living room. Once
there, he asked if Alma was a heavy drinker.
54
“A heavy drinker?” I repeated, wondering what that entailed.
“She is a drinker then?” he asked. Alma did enjoy her wine. I knew she drank more after
Jerry left. She even joked about it: “Who needs pinga when you’ve got pinot?” I shrugged, not
wanting to betray her.
Redbeard shouted, “Bring the gurney!” Overbite retrieved it from the hallway and rolled
it into the bedroom. Redbeard grabbed her arms. Overbite grabbed her legs.
“Get away! I’m not going! I have rights!” she shrieked.
The paramedics fastened straps over her shoulders and ankles. She was carried out of the
apartment. There wasn’t room for me in the elevator, so I ran down the stairs. I arrived in the
lobby first.
“How is she?” Raul asked. The elevator opened. “Ay, carajo,” he exclaimed, seeing her.
“I’m being kidnapped! Call 911!” she shouted.
“We are 911,” Overbite reminded her.
After she was brought into the ambulance, I climbed in with them. Redbeard took her
blood pressure while Overbite called Adventist Hospital.
“Talk to her,” Redbeard told me. “You make her calmer,” he observed. I thought, that
must have been some elevator ride down.
“You’ll be okay,” I promised her.
“I know,” she said with a solemn nod. Her believing it made me believe it. I told myself,
the doctors would save her. I would never forget her again. I wouldn’t let her give up on life. I
wouldn’t let her drink herself to death.
All the effort I put into dressing her turned out to be for naught. As soon as she came in
through the emergency room doors, a team of doctors and nurses swarmed her. A pair of scissors
55
glinted in an orderly’s hands. I heard the ripping of fabric, her screams of protest.
A portly, white woman introduced herself as Kate, a social worker, and walked me to a
waiting room. She disappeared for two hours, then returned to inform me that Alma’s PET scan
indicated advanced cirrhosis of the liver. She received a call and had to leave again. An hour
later, she came back. She was wearing a facemask. She hadn’t been before.
“Unfortunately, your aunt tested positive for COVID-19. She won’t be allowed visitors
until ten days after a negative test,” she disclosed.
“She wasn’t able to leave her apartment,” I pointed out.
“Those with compromised immune systems are especially susceptible. Maybe someone
was delivering food or liquor,” she said casually. It seemed like she was trying to blame her.
Even contracting COVID was her fault because she was a drunk.
“You think she deserved this?” I snapped. I was emotionally spent, exhausted and
hungry.
“I never said that,” she maintained.
“You didn’t have to.” I stood up and left.
I got home after midnight. As tired as I was, I didn’t sleep a wink.
During my lunch hour the next day, I called the hospital’s information desk. I was on
hold for forty minutes before the operator gave me the number to Alma’s room. I tried to call
her, but her phone rang with no answer.
I stopped by her building after work. If I couldn’t see her, at least I could water her
plants, pick up her mail and crack open a window to air out her apartment.
Her mailbox was crammed to capacity. It took me a minute to extract everything. Upon
finishing, I turned to find Theo beside me. Startled, I dropped the stack of mail.
56
“Merde,” he said. He knelt to pick up the mail. I knelt. I found myself fixating on his
shapely mouth, his small, but plush lips. Distracted, I only grabbed Alma’s issue of Fine
Gardening. He handed me the rest. We stood.
“Your aunt is better? Irene worries. Pardon me, is worried. My English isn’t perfect,” he
said.
“She’s in the hospital,” I said, sparing him the gruesome details.
“That’s a shame. Tell me if there is anything I can do. I give my, um.” He paused. He
pulled out his phone and typed. “Condolences,” he said, finding the word on Google. I didn’t
think it was the right word, since she wasn’t dead, but I didn’t want to embarrass him.
“Thanks,” I said. We walked to the elevator. He hit the button.
“I have to take care of her plants. I’m afraid I’ll kill them,” I divulged. He laughed. I was
serious. For the last few Christmases, Alma gave me plants, no longer able to afford exorbitant
gifts. I managed to kill each one, even an aloe vera that she promised was indestructible.
“Plants are, like, her obsession,” I explained.
“They’re her chéries,” he remarked. I nodded. Whatever that word meant, it sounded
appropriate, and lovely coming from his lovely mouth.
“They’re in pretty bad shape.” I sighed.
“I come help you?” he proposed. I squinted, questioning his motivations. Though he set
off my gaydar, it might have been because he was French. Even Emily’s Parisian paramours
were stylish and sophisticated. “Only if you want,” he added.
“Sure,” I said. I found myself hoping that he did have ulterior motives.
My romantic life in New York was as nonexistent as my acting career. At first, I had
fantasies of finding true love. Wary of Grindr, I put off dating until the bars reopened. It turned
57
out that men in person still only wanted one thing; they were just less honest about it.
I lost my virginity to a sandy-haired, Taylor Swift-obsessed stockbroker, who gushed that
I looked like “a tan Joe Jonas.” When I suggested exchanging numbers, he sighed, “Oh honey,
I’m not in my ‘Love Story’ era right now.”
Now, I insisted on a first date before sex. That strategy hadn’t proven successful. After
being ghosted six times in a row, I even brought my iPhone to the Apple store, believing,
delusionally, it must be broken.
“Have you lived in New York long?” I asked as we rode the elevator up.
“Three months. I transferred from Paris when my company opened a headquarters in
Hudson Yards. Have you heard of L’Oreal?” he asked. I nodded.
“I’m a marketing director. I started as an artist, designing ads,” he revealed. I smiled: an
artist at a cosmetics company; with that career, he had to be gay.
“And you?” he asked.
“I do data entry at an office near Bryant Park. I’m trying to make it as an actor,” I said.
He smiled. I wondered if it was because “actor” was high on the list of gayest professions too.
When we stepped into Alma’s apartment, he was kind enough not to mention the stench.
We walked over to the bay windows. I opened one a few inches.
“With all this sun, it should be easy,” he remarked.
“I’ll still screw it up,” I insisted. He rolled his eyes.
“There is a thing to give water?” he asked. I retrieved the watering can from the kitchen
after filling it in the sink. I started on the left, watering an odd-looking cactus. Round with long
arms extending in every direction, it resembled a monstrous octopus.
“Eh, you do too much. You don’t want it spills from the bottom,” he said. I noticed a
58
brown puddle forming below the pot. I snatched a Kleenex from the coffee table and soaked up
the water.
“See.” I pouted.
“Watch.” He took the watering can. He moved onto the next plant, stepping closer to me.
I smelled his cologne. An image popped into my head, of us standing across from each other
shirtless, then him leaning in and kissing my neck.
“The soil,” he said, seeing I wasn’t paying attention. He slowly watered a plant with
small, oval leaves and a handful of pink, star-shaped flowers. This plant, with its whimsical,
delicate beauty, reminded me of a little girl.
“Okay,” I said doubtfully.
“She takes what she needs,” he explained. As the water was absorbed into the soil, he
made a sucking sound. “She stops when she has enough. That’s when you stop.” He turned the
watering can upright. “You try,” he directed.
I watered the next plant. It seemed in poor shape, bent over and shriveled up, its magenta
leaves turning grayish brown. In it, I saw an ailing, old woman. I took the watering can, poured it
slowly. I stopped when the soil seemed saturated.
“Perfect. Next, remove the dead parts.” He plucked off several withered leaves. “Voila, it
has new life.”
“Hmm.” I had to admit, the old-woman-plant looked better, rejuvenated, like Grandma
Perez after Grandpa Perez had his stroke and died. I scanned the remaining plants. None seemed
so far gone that it couldn’t be salvaged.
“I think I got it,” I said, giving him permission to go. He lingered.
“Irene said Alma speaks about you often. She also said, forgive me, that she doesn’t get
59
along with most of her family,” he said.
“Yeah, she’s kind of the black sheep,” I admitted. From his confused smile, I could tell
he wasn’t familiar with the expression. “Nobody likes her,” I said, putting it bluntly.
“She’s lucky to have you,” he said.
“I’m lucky to have her,” I replied. Tears welled in my eyes. Alma had saved me.
All it had taken was one photo for Alma to perceive my suffering and offer me an escape.
Luz, Alma’s cousin, had posted the group shot from a Perez family barbecue on Facebook. Alma
had noticed my black eye.
Alma would later confide that she had suspected I was gay since I was five, when I would
sing along to “All I Want for Christmas is You” with a tad too much exuberance. She had always
been afraid of my parents’ reaction once they found out.
I hadn’t been stupid enough to come out to them, but I had been stupid enough not to
delete my laptop’s search history. My mother’s snooping was prompted by a Sunday sermon on
the corruptive influence of the internet. She called me a deviant, said my soul was diseased.
One day, I received an email from Alma.
“Pobrecito, I couldn’t help but notice your shiner. Your father really is an hijo de puta. It
broke my heart, seeing how your face is so handsome. I heard you want to be an actor. Even
Delia, Miss ‘Pride is a Sin,’ brags about your talent. Come to New York and follow your dreams.
It’s where you can be you.”
She bought me a plane ticket on a redeye flight. I snuck out during the night, leaving a
note on the refrigerator, “Your deviant son’s in New York.”
I remembered ringing Alma’s doorbell, terrified, at 11 a.m. When she opened the door,
she was as glamorous as a movie star, wearing a silk, floral print caftan, her makeup impeccable.
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“Don’t be afraid, Cariño,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. “It’s fun being the
outcast. You’ll see,” she whispered. The smell of wine on her breath didn’t concern me. If
anything, I found it intoxicating.
“It’s hard to be different,” Theo noted.
“It could be fun too,” I said with a smirk. It was what Alma would say. He laughed.
“True.” He gazed into my eyes. I thought he would kiss me. At last, he looked away.
Now wasn’t an appropriate time for a make-out session, though Alma, herself, wouldn’t have
minded. She had no regard for decorum.
“You can manage.” He tore off one last brown leaf from a spidery plant. “There is a
trash?” he asked.
“Let me,” I said, extending my hand. He dropped the clump of leaves into my palm. We
touched ever so lightly, yet it sent a tingle through my whole body.
“I take your number,” he suggested. “If you need botanic advice,” he added. I nodded.
We exchanged numbers.
“Super. Don’t worry about these plants. The water and sun, it will…” He grasped the air
as he searched for the right word. “Heal,” he asserted. I thanked him and he left.
A minute later, I received a text from him. It read, “Here if you need to talk,” with a GIF
of a meowing cat. Unthinkingly, I gave it a “love” tapback. I cringed, realizing “love” might
have been too strong, but changing it to a “like” now would be even more awkward.
I tried calling Alma again that night and during my lunch hour the next day. She never
picked up. I decided to stop by the hospital after work. I wouldn’t be able to see her, but I needed
to know that she was alive.
I was cutting through Bryant Park on my way to the subway station when my phone
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vibrated. The number was from Alma’s hospital phone.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Pedro, it’s Alma. I just want you to know I’m all right,” she said. She must have had my
cell phone number memorized.
“Thank God. They won’t let me visit you because of your COVID,” I explained.
“Jerry’s behind this,” she said.
“I really meant to come see you,” I said contritely, thinking she had guessed that it was
Jerry’s idea to check in on her.
“He’s got me in some kind of prison,” she continued. I felt queasy.
“You’re in the hospital,” I said.
“No, that’s what he’s telling everyone. Please help me,” she begged. “Oh God, they’re
here,” she said. A woman said Alma’s name and the call disconnected.
Bewildered, I sat down on a bench. I Googled “alcohol withdrawal symptoms.” Paranoia
was listed as among the most common. I knew I had to tell someone at the hospital about her
delusions. I called the information desk. The operator transferred me to a nurse’s station.
A blasé sounding nurse named Vicky informed me that “delirium” was already noted in
Alma’s chart. She tersely promised to add my number to her record and to keep me apprised of
any new developments.
Though I never heard from Vicky again, Alma called me the next morning. She
mentioned that she was scheduled for surgery, which seemed like the kind of development I was
supposed to be apprised of.
“They told me to sign a consent form so they can drain my stomach. They say it’s for my
health, but it’s really a torture method. Jerry’s punishing me because I told Irene about his
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toupee,” she spouted.
“Sign it. It’s better if they don’t realize you’re onto them,” I advised.
“Good point. But I think Jerry already knows that I know. I shouldn’t have called him,”
she said.
“You called Jerry?” I asked, hoping she was recounting a hallucination.
“Or his robot stand-in,” she said with uncertainty. “Are you the real Pedro?” She gasped,
then hung up.
She called again in the evening. Still fearing I was a robot, she quizzed me on Bridgerton
plotlines until I convinced her I was me. As the days passed, her claims became increasingly
outlandish. Jerry had learned how to alter his appearance to look like anyone. Jerry switched her
Jell-o to lime to torment her; he knew how she hated that flavor.
Between unhinged calls from Alma, I received another text from Theo.
“Hello. It is Theo. I am thinking much of you and Alma.”
“Thanks,” I typed. I smiled, finding his odd phrasing as cute to read as it was to hear.
“If you want, maybe we share a drink?” he texted.
I was about to reply “sure,” but hesitated.
It occurred to me that Alma was in her early twenties, like me, when she began her affair
with Jerry. Jerry was in his early forties, like Theo. Jerry was well off, like Theo. She must have
thought Jerry would take care of her, give her everything she needed. In the end, he left her with
nothing, not even her mind.
I ignored the text. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust him, though I didn’t. I was afraid to fall
in love with him. Alma had loved Jerry, and I saw what it had done to her.
The day Alma didn’t call me I wasn’t overly concerned. Her procedure had apparently
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gone well. She had mentioned Jerry’s “punishment” backfired. She was skinny now, “a flaquita
like when we first met.”
The following evening, I received a call from a strange number. I guessed it was from the
hospital. I feared the worst.
“Can I speak with Pedro?” a familiar voice asked.
“Speaking.”
“My name’s Kate. I’m a social worker at Adventist Hospital. I’m calling about Alma.
Your number was in her file,” she said.
“We met,” I reminded her.
“That’s right,” she said with a note of displeasure. “I’m calling to let you know that her
quarantine has been lifted. You can see her.”
I let out a shocked laugh. It was actually good news.
“You changed the rules?” I asked. It hadn’t been ten days since a negative COVID test;
she was admitted nine days ago.
“No, it’s called a ‘compassionate exemption,’ done in cases of end-of-life care,” she
explained.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Didn’t Dr. Marx talk to you? Let’s see. There was a switch in attendings. There must’ve
been an oversight. Your aunt seemed to be recovering well, but there were complications from
her stomach drainage procedure. I’m sorry.”
“Are you saying she’s going to die?” I asked.
“I’m saying, if you want to see her again, you should do it now,” she said evenly.
“Visiting hours are nine a.m. to nine p.m.,” she added. It was seven-thirty p.m. Within fifteen
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minutes, I was on the subway to Manhattan.
When I saw Alma in her room my heart stopped. She lay on her back, shivering beneath
several blankets. Her skin was a ghoulish pale green. I approached her slowly. Her dull eyes
settled on my face.
“Hi Alma,” I said. She didn’t respond. Beside her sat a middle-aged, African American
woman with purple bangs.
“Do you know who this is, Alma?” she asked. She threw me a smile. Alma opened her
mouth. All that escaped her lips was a soft grunt.
“It’s Pedro,” I told Alma. “I’m her nephew,” I said to the woman.
“I’m Gloria. I’ve been her sitter since she came in,” she said. She turned to Alma. “You
loved pulling out your tubes, didn’t you?” she scolded her gently. Alma wrinkled her nose.
“She understands still, I think. Talk to her,” Gloria said. I nodded, but I couldn’t think of
what to say. I walked over to her side.
“You’re allowed to touch her,” Gloria said.
I reached over to Alma’s hand and squeezed it. Her skin felt papery. Her bones seemed as
fragile as twigs. She stared down at our hands. She muttered something. I wasn’t sure, but I
thought she said, “Cariño.” She swallowed. She looked up at the ceiling, then closed her eyes.
She held onto my fingers.
“You make her so calm,” Gloria marveled.
I stayed until midnight. Gloria said it would be fine. She even brought over a second
chair for me. Before I returned home, I kissed Alma’s forehead and whispered “goodbye.” I
misspoke. I meant to say goodnight. Yet, it turned out to be appropriate. In the morning, I woke
up to a voicemail from Kate informing me that Alma had passed away.
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Although only I had come to visit her, it was soon apparent that others were aware of her
hospitalization. When no one contacted me about her remains, I called and was transferred to the
morgue. A receptionist there told me her body was already enroute to Encina, Texas.
I could imagine what her funeral would be like. She would be turned into a cautionary
tale; forsaking righteousness, she died a destitute drunk. Even in the unlikely event I was invited,
I wouldn’t go.
She may have called a family member in her delirious state. I learned that she had, in
fact, spoken to the real Jerry, in all his scumbag glory.
I wanted to save her plants. I owed it to her, for failing to save her. I returned to her
apartment building after work, but when I headed to the elevator, Raul blocked me.
“Sorry Pedro, Jerry called management. His name’s on the lease. He made a point of
saying no one can enter,” he said.
“I only need five minutes. Just let me water her plants, so they survive another week,” I
pled. He shook his head, no, then glanced pointedly at the camera above us. I stormed out,
slamming the door behind me.
As I left, I saw Irene outside, smoking a cigarette in front of the “No smoking” sign. She
had seemingly overheard us. She was sniffling.
I didn’t blame Raul. He was just doing his job; no doubt, he hated his as much as I hated
mine.
Friday afternoon at work, four days after Alma died, I received a text.
“Hello. It is Theo.”
I hadn’t given much thought to Theo. I assumed I had ruined things by ignoring his offer
to meet up for a drink. I felt a pang of regret now.
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“Hi,” I typed.
“I am sorry about Alma,” he texted, along with a coffee-colored angel emoji. While well-
intentioned, making her an angel didn’t feel appropriate. She didn’t believe in them, and she
certainly wasn’t one in life.
“TY,” I replied. Three dots appeared. I hoped he would suggest meeting up. I would say
yes, this time. The message arrived.
“I am close ur office. In Bryant Park.”
“U r?” I texted, befuddled.
“U come?” he asked.
I glanced at the time in the corner of my screen. It was a quarter past noon. Lunch wasn’t
until one. I was about to apologize, explain I couldn’t. Then, I thought of Alma, how she had
encouraged me to be bold, like her. If she were here, she would shout, “Go! Hurry up! ¡Ándale!”
I texted, “On my way,” grabbed my jacket and left. I would just say that I felt sick and
needed air.
Theo stood in front of the west facing entrance. He held a ceramic pot with a plant. It was
about two feet tall, with lightly speckled, spear-shaped leaves. A single, bright red flower with
tiny, round petals peeked through the green, reminding me of an exposed heart. I recognized it
from Alma’s apartment.
“Irene has the rest,” he said. Irene, I remembered, had several sets of Alma’s keys.
I tried to thank him, but my voice choked. His kindness touched me. I was so grateful I
met him. Something beautiful had arisen from tragedy, like a flower from the dirt.
Suddenly, a wild impulse came over me. Perhaps it was the spirit of Alma. Perhaps she
was an angel now. I grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed his mouth. Startled, he dropped the
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pot. It landed on its side.
“Oh no!” I gasped, certain I had killed it.
He scooped it up and examined it. Miraculously, both the pot and plant were unharmed.
We laughed. Holding it firmly to his chest, he put his free arm around me and brought me closer.
He pursed his lips. We kissed again.
Somehow, I knew this thing between us wouldn’t die. It was too strong. Whether it was
good or bad, we couldn’t stop it. All we could do was watch it grow.
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Contributors
Boma Cho (San Francisco artist)
It’s me looking at you
It’s you looking at me
They are looking at us
We are looking at them
So who is looking at who?
Huntley Gibson Paton is a former journalist and news media executive
Who lives near Asheville, N.C. His short stories have appeared in
Narrative,
Eclectica and
Bewildering Stories
Esther Sadoff is a teacher and writer from Columbus, Ohio. Her poems
have been featured in
Little Patuxent Review, Jet Fuel Review, Cathexis
Poetry Northwest, Pidgenholes, Santa Clara Review, and
South Florida
Poetry Journal. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Hole in the
Head Review.
Subramani Mani trained as a physician in India and moved to the U.S. to
pursue A PhD. In Artificial Intelligence. After teaching at Vanderbilt
University and the University of New Mexico for more than a decade, he
started writing, feeling the urge to share memories of certain life
experiences. His stories have Been published in
The Charleston Anvil,
Umbrella Factory Magazine, New English Reviews, Fairlight shorts and
The Phoenix.
James Croal Jackson is a Filipino American poet who works in film
production His latest
chapbooks are A God You Believed in (Pinhole
Poetry, 2023) and
Count Seeds with Me (
Ethel Zine and Micro-Press, 2022).
Recent poems are in
The Garlic Press, Glint, and Triggerfish. He edits
The
Mantle Poetry, from Nashville, Tennessee. (jamescroljackson.com)
Scott Bassis has had short stories published in
the Rappahannock Review,
Litbreak Magazine, Masque and Spectacle, Poydras Review, The Furious
Gazalle, Punt Volat, The Writing Disorder, Jab, Sweet Tree Review, The
Acentos Review, Marrow Magazine, SandPiper, Trouvaiille Review, and
others.
Ralph Romero is a freelance photographer from Los Angeles.
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