Robyn Roberson's "In the Pursuit of Adventure"

After five hours sailing north through a relatively calm Puget Sound, Mark and I realized that Clancy knew absolutely nothing about sailing a 42’ Catalina Sloop. We already knew his wife, Alice, knew nothing about sailing. In fact, she had been downing Dramamine since morning, promising us she would not get seasick. Clancy wasn’t completely ignorant. He did know port and starboard, how to start the engine, and how to back Lenore out of her slip. He was a smooth-talker, however, being a retired Army Sergeant. He was a marvelous manipulator. He convinced us of his sailing prowess through stories about his week-long journey to Hawaii with a couple of his buddies. He failed to mention he was mainly a passenger and only steered upon occasion. Once this realization sunk in, I knew fear, yet continued to welcome the unknown because I knew that my boyfriend Mark, the only sailor among the four of us, would somehow deliver us to Resurrection Bay alive.

And suddenly, here was our first challenge. We were two hours from Port Townsend, Washington with nightfall quickly approaching on the first night of our journey to Alaska. Lenore didn’t even have radar. But she carried four survival suits and one survival raft. A Loran was our only guide, plus a compass and nautical charts for the Seattle-Alaska inside passage. Mark remained calm, and although he had to answer to Clancy, he was able to safely bring us into port because he had moored there several times and new the bay and its tides. Luckily, the dock was well lit.

Port Townsend was the last of the big towns we would see on our entire trip. Our provision and gasoline stops centered around tiny outposts and Indian villages along the Georgia, Queen Charlotte, and Hecate Straits before we would arrive in Ketchikan, two weeks later. That night the four of us celebrated the Catalina’s virgin end-of-May voyage with a celebratory dinner of Quilcene oysters on the half-shell, prawns, scallops, and fresh Halibut, washed down with Red Hook beers for Mark and me and virgin Daquiris for Clancy and Alice. They were Mormon and did not drink alcohol or smoke tobacco, though thankfully they drank caffeine. During dinner, Alice brought out photos of their five grown children, living in various places throughout the western United States. She was proud of their accomplishments. Clancy, having retired from the Army five years earlier, explained he was living out his dream of buying a sailboat and being able to travel and live-aboard. He had grown up in Michigan and spent a fair amount of his childhood sailing on the Great Lakes. Alice grew up in southern Minnesota and was mostly used to seeing flat, farmland. But she was game for trying the sailing life. Both Clancy and Alice were in their mid-fifties, greying and growing wider with the years. The main difference was in their demeanor. While Alice was soft spoken, Clancy was the opposite, boorish and loud.

After dinner, our two providers drifted off to bed while Mark and I had a few more drinks and several cigarettes, savoring them while knowing they would be our last until we docked again. We discussed our two crewmates and questioned the intelligence of our agreement to become crewmembers. After all, we weren’t being paid or guaranteed any work upon arriving in Seward. Mark then reminded me that I didn’t hang up their “Want Ads” even though I said I had. Since I was young I had always wanted to go to Alaska and this was the perfect opportunity, which I couldn’t pass up, even though Mark was scheduled to work all summer, so I cleverly plotted a way for us to be the crewmembers. Clancy and Alice were confused at having received no calls from potential crewmates after their ad had been posted for two weeks and became a little panicked about not being able to get home. I suggested that we go and the deal was made. Mark observed that I wanted this trip, so why worry? He then cavalierly remarked we would make it to Alaska alive and able to sail any vessel back to Seattle if no cannery work was available. I believed he would get us there safely, how could I not? The rest of the summer would be taken day by day.

Much of our journey was spent motoring through the inside passage because we were often surrounded by towering, rocky mountains and very little wind from the ocean reached us. And when the wind did show up, it was often a head wind, which did us no good because the straits were often narrow and we didn’t have much room to tack. When I wasn’t on watch or steering, I often sat on the bow, salty air and my notebook as companions. Reading and writing were my only solitary times. After only a few days, a 42’ boat shrinks to the size of a bathtub. There wasn’t much privacy except in the head.

The brief moments of solitude, however, were just what I needed. Hawks, Osprey, and Ravens continually soared overhead. A myriad of gulls - Arctic Terns, Kittiwakes and Murres - competed for food. Many times I was privileged to see Bald Eagles hunting the seas and forests. After the first week, I was able to point out various species of trees by name - Pacific Yew, Silver Fir, Cedar, and White Spruce. Dolphins often surfed the wake sifting off Lenore’s bow, escorting us towards summer. The days continued to grow longer.

Sometimes Alice would join me on the bow. She often spoke about her children. Occasionally she would mention how important this trip was to her and Clancy. She felt it would bring them closer. I enjoyed our conversations together. But mainly we would marvel at the scenery. The pristine rain forests were neither harvested nor burned, and the beautifully varied coastline displayed secluded beaches and protected anchorages, where we often moored for the night. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a dinghy, so lounging on the sandy beaches was out of the question. We were stranded upon the water, twenty-four hours a day, which wasn’t a problem until we picked up provisions at a village. Our sea legs barely turned into land legs once we stopped at port. While shopping in the trading posts, we constantly felt as though we were still on the water, our inner ears making our heads feel like they were bobbing up and down with the waves. Locals were grounded while we swayed back and forth.

The most memorable trading post stop came in the form of Alert Bay on Campbell Island, B.C. We were in the land of the Haida. Thunderbird, Moon Wolf, and Sea Grizzly Bear guardian spirits greeted us on the outskirt of town. The faded multi-colored totem poles towered over Lenore’s mast, which was itself an impressive thirty-nine feet. We lucked out with a sunny sixty degree day. A gang of five Indian boys and girls greeted us as we landed at the gasoline shack. They waved then ran up the gravel lane toward the trading post. After gassing up, Mark and I decided to explore, while Clancy and Alice argued over what groceries to buy - which brand of canned beans, white or wheat bread, bologna or tuna fish, Cheez Whiz or Kraft slices, apples or fruit cocktail? Bummer, no greens. A few of the cedar plank houses sported a run-down vehicle of sorts, and a few houses had motorcycles or dirt bikes. But there wasn’t much point since the tiny village was on a tiny island, about twenty miles in diameter - where did they ride to? But nearly every yard had a boat of some sort - be it canoe, dinghy, fishing boat. Fishing was their main source of living. Too soon it was time to board our vessel and head north, forever north.

By the time it was mid-June, the days were definitely longer, yet wetter. We hit a four-day streak of long, grey, drizzly nine-hour days of shivering and motoring. Where was the damned wind? We were all gloomy and cold. I was sick of the greasy potatoes and eggs and would have killed for a huge green salad with all the trimmings. I’d kill for a long hot shower and dry, warm clothes, too. Supposedly Ketchikan was one day away.

The crooning voice of Van Morrison singing Moondance greeted us first, belting from a fisherman’s stereo, while the sun’s strong rays warmed our wilted moods. We then caught sight of Ketchikan, perched beside the water and meandering along the gently sloping hillside. After various boating duties and showers at the municipal marina, the four of us split up and moseyed on our own paths. We needed our space. After browsing in shops for a couple of hours, I ran into Mark. We agreed we were damned tired of the small berth we slept in plus the lack of privacy. It was time to spend some of our squirreled away cash on a room for the night. We marveled at the notion of a soft bed and bath, two nights in a row - what luxury!

A storm off the Gulf of Alaska kept us nested in the small fishing village of Elfin Cove for three days. It was beautiful there and I didn’t mind staying longer. But Clancy and Mark were getting on each other’s nerves, Alice was bugging Clancy, and Clancy definitely was irritating me! We were ready for the adventure to end, but the scariest part was in front of us. Apparently it took three solid days and two long nights of non-stop motoring to get across the Gulf of Alaska, just 800 short miles. If there was any hint of a storm, it would be virtual suicide to continue. Thus, our unscheduled stay in Elfin Cove. Just to reach this cove of paradise, we had to sail down Icy Strait through Glacier Bay. Yes, ice bergs were floating all around. The trip until that point was not without its perilous moments. Several times we almost crashed the boat into submerged ice, got caught in unforeseen fogbanks and crashed ashore, or didn’t anchor far enough off-shore to keep us off land once the tide receded. Pesky situations, indeed, but a storm was life or death. Winds could easily reach 50-60 knots with waves 30 feet and higher. The boat could probably survive, but we wouldn’t.

Between Clancy being antsy about returning home, Alice bedraggled and sick from the sailing, yet continually upbeat, and Mark and I desperately wishing for our freedom, we greeted the July 4th fireworks with mixed enthusiasm. Somehow, a fireworks display at midnight in full sunlight doesn’t really work. This town, population of maybe 50 people, was accessible only by boat or float plane, and had one small store and a post office. Boardwalks threaded along the wooded shore and around the protected inner harbor where fishing lodges and homesteads perched on stilts. We were trapped in a picturesque, yet utterly boring town.

Tensions continued to grow between Clancy and Alice as our trip progressed. I couldn’t understand why he was acting like such an asshole because she was genuinely sweet and attentive. Although our journey across the gulf was fairly inconsequential, their behaviors became more and more bizarre. Clancy would yell at Alice, then she would go to their berth and cry. All Mark and I could do was sit at the bow or sit down below and navigate and ignore them. Finally we arrived in Seward and everyone’s mood lifted. That evening, after Clancy and Alice unloaded Lenore and loaded their jeep we had a farewell dinner at the Crusty Pelican. They were prepared to drive home to Kenai, 40 miles east, in the morning. Mark and I were still unsure of what to expect concerning work and a place to live, and were prepared to begin camping out in the campground. Because Clancy was in such a grand mood, he offered to let us stay in the boat until we found a job, provided we not mind when he took it out for a spin with our belongings inside. No problem, we thought.

It hadn’t been more than three days until we heard a knock on the hatch door. It was Clancy, holding a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. Without any apologies or explanations, he asked us to leave the boat until 8 p.m. that night. We asked where Alice was, but he ignored the question. As we were leaving, a young woman, easily 15 years younger than Clancy, walked up to the boat and called out. He eagerly greeted her, introduced us, and ushered us away. Hmmm, that was weird. There was no question in our minds about who she was or why she was there. The next day we gathered our belongings and set up at the campground. As luck would have it, the campground owner was the same woman Clancy was having an affair with. She was as embarrassed as we were disgusted. We saw them together a few times after that, but basically we ignored them and hoped for the best for Alice. Maybe she would get the boat.

Sue McIntyre's "Nagisaw* Snapshots"

“And we’re standing in the Skyroom, which looks just like it did for High School Prom,” Chrissy says, and I can easily picture the airport restaurant—the wedding showers, school dances, and class reunions celebrated there the only reason anyone in Nagisaw, Michigan, ever actually goes to the airport, so far as I know. Chrissy continues, “So then Jill Kusowski says, ‘Now that they expanded the mall and brought in Starbucks and everything, plus that good pizza place by the Quad Movies, it’s a lot better.’”

“Well, of course, that’d make everything better, wouldn’t it?” I interrupt, gripping the phone. “Who needs a bookstore or a cultural center?”

“Riiiight!” exclaims Chrissy, in the Texas-Alabama drawl she’s developed in the 20 years since graduation. “And then, get this, Mary Hirschman--you know, she married Eric Schremms?--well, she says, ‘Yeah, we thought of moving too, but it’s just such a good place to raise children.’” Hysterical laughter fills the Alabama-California phone line connecting us, as we enjoy a moment of common criticism regarding our hometown.

“Really, Sue. You shoulda come to the reunion. You would’ve been pissing. Plus, I missed you. We’d’ve had so much fun talking bout everyone.”

“I know, I know. Maybe in another five,” I say. As I settle in on the sofa for more gossip, my gaze lands on the gilt-edged ashtray resting on the end table nearby—a gift from my grandparents during my last trip home four years ago. Overlapping the city (Incorporated 1857) seal, a red, white, and blue chevron proclaims, “NAGISAW All America City.”

. . . . .

aauuuuuuunk! aauuuuuuunk! aauuuuuuunk! The alarm pulses steadily on and off, so we know it’s a tornado instead of a fire. Clutching my pencil, I feel my blood start to pound, even though Miss Kemp told us this morning that it’s just practice. “Put your pencils and books in your desks and push in your chairs,” hollers Miss Kemp calmly. When everyone is ready except for Susan Pasternak (of course), I look frantically out the window, making sure that a tornado hasn’t come just by chance. What if it’s not really practice? I wonder while searching the sky, and Kristen Wieneke must be thinking the same thing, because she starts to cry.

“It’s okay, Kristen. It’s just a practice drill,” Miss Kemp reminds us, shouting over the alarm. “Now let’s line up in the designated space.” Dutifully, we move out the door and take our places; mine is by locker 45, even though when it’s not a tornado day my locker is actually number 62. I make sure that Matt Lumbreras is right in front of me and Renee Micelli is right behind me, because we have to keep track of our buddies. Miss Kemp says something I can’t hear because the alarm is shrieking in my head, but then she waves and everyone starts moving, so I know we’re leaving.

Once we get outside into the sudden silence, I can see the second graders and Mrs. Chambers in front of us, and without looking back I know that Mr. Fila’s fourth grade is behind us. It’s not very far from the school to the church, but when we pass by the rectory, I imagine that the wind is getting stronger, and I wonder how the eighth grade will ever get inside in time.

“Quickly, but calmly,” Sr. Corinne says, as she moves back and forth between the grades, “Quickly, but calmly.” And I am calm, seeing the gaping church doors grow closer with each step. We step into the lobby’s sudden gloom, and Mrs. Murphy reminds us that the lights are out because if it was a real tornado they might be out too. “Leaders, come and get your flashlights,” she calls, and I scurry to where she’s standing. I take the offered flashlight, shake it, flip the switch, and return to the line, where Matt Micelli is holding up his hand so I can find my space.

The eighth graders have finally made it into the crowded lobby, and just in time, because the first graders begin to cry, and the big kids need to take their place helping the little kids down the stairs so they’re not so scared. The seventh grade helps the second grade too, but this year my class doesn’t need helpers because we know how to do it and we’re not afraid of the basement anymore.

The stairs are steep and they’re dark, so I make sure to shine my light on the ground, so it lights up enough stairs and no one falls. When we all get to our spots where our grade numbers are painted on the floor, Sr. Corrine stands in the middle of the room and tells us that everyone made it down safely. “Very well done, boys and girls,” she says. “It only took us 12 minutes to find shelter.” After we all applaud, she continues, “Now I’m going to turn on the radio, just like we would if this were a real tornado, so we could hear what to do and when it is safe to go back outside. Of course,” she reminds us, “this was just a practice today, so we won’t have to wait for the all clear signal.”

As we stand in the glow of flashlights, listening to the tinny AM station broadcasting country music, I realize that it’s a good thing it was only a practice. I forgot to put my reading book in my desk, and it could have gotten blown away if there was a real tornado.

. . . . .

On the eighth grade field trip to Greenfield Village I realize that Henry Ford and the Ford cars in the pictures and assembly lines displayed in the Dearborn, Michigan, museum are the same Fords as the Ford Motor Company that Alan Tunney, Sandra Kiss, and Joel Tobias’s dads work at. I’m amazed at this glamorous connection, which I didn’t figure out during my third and fifth grade visits, and it makes me feel proud to live in Nagisaw. For the next week, I quiz the adults I know mercilessly, dedicated to discovering my own connection to fame and glory.

“No, I don’t know anyone who drove a Model T; I’m not that old,” my mom disappoints me by saying. “And Grandma Michalski has never driven a car in her life,” she adds, anticipating my next question.

Grandma McIntosh informs me that the only one in our family that has ever worked in an auto factory is my dad, but I already knew he worked there and it’s not the Ford one anyway. My Great Uncle John worked at the sugar beet plant—the one that belches black clouds that smell like burning cookies—, her dad owned a freight company, my other great uncle was a farmer, and my grandpa works at a cemetery. I already know that grandma works at an office, because I get the computer punch cards to use as flashcards for science and English words. Not as exciting as Ford Motor Company, I decide.

My Uncle Paul’s answers bring me no closer to kinship with Henry--or even his son, Edsel, the one he named a bad car after. No one in our family ever appears to have worked for Ford, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s why we don’t have a swimming pool, like Sandy does, or a camper trailer, like Alan’s family uses in the summer. Instead, I learn that Grandpa Michalski made steel at Gray Iron Foundry when he was young (not even whole cars, I am devastated to hear) and then, up until he got cancer and died when I was four, he worked for Chrysler. Uncle Caz worked for Chevy after he was a cop and before he retired. “Is that Chevy, like our Nova?” I ask, wondering if Uncle Caz made our car himself.

“Yeah, sure,” Uncle Paul says and I think I may be on to something here. “No one works at any of those places any more, though,” he adds. “They closed the plants down. Not enough work.”

“How come?”

“Well, they’re not making as many cars as they used to.”

“But everyone we know has a car,” I exclaim. “Linda Sheridan’s family even has two and you have three if you count Justifiable Homicide. And at Deerfield Village they said that hardly anyone used to have a car before Henry Ford. Don’t they need to make even more cars now?”

“Well, sure. But more people make cars now than did back then.”

“You even got the Japs coming here with those tiny cars,” Grandma interjects from the sewing machine.

“Not big, like Uncle Paul’s Cadillac,” I state proudly, because I know that Uncle Paul’s good car is important, coming out of the garage on Sundays or for bowling league nights. I remember entering the dazzling green vehicle and sitting carefully on the soft, cream-colored leather seats on the way to my sister Sarah’s First Communion last year, and I get a bit hopeful. “So is that who you work for? Cadillac?”

Unfortunately, it’s not Cadillac or Ford that Uncle Paul works for, but Nagisaw Steering Gear—the one auto parts manufacturer left in our town, he explains. I guess that I’ll have to work there, I decide. Otherwise I’ll have to leave town to work for Henry and the Fords. Or the Japs.

. . . . .

“Is Delbert McManaman your father, son?” the tall cop asks, training the flashlight on Mike’s recently earned license. Finally, I think, a question with an easy answer--not like Where’d you get the beer? How much have you had to drink? or Where are you going? (As if there is anywhere for teenagers to go in this town, I can’t help but think.) “Yes, sir,” Mike replies in his best Catholic school voice, hardly slurring at all.

The cop tells us, “Stay here,” and walks back to the patrol car where the short cop is talking on the radio. Warily, the five of us stand behind the station wagon and shift from foot to foot, sweltering in the late May heat, even though it’s 8:00 at night. Mike chews on his bottom lip. Denise and John settle on the curb. I’m not worried about any of them: Mike seems to be holding it together despite the lip thing, Denise has had practice with cops, and John has drunk only two beers since we picked him up half an hour earlier. I’m mostly worried about Chrissy, as she’s already thrown up twice since we went to Immerman Park after school. I move closer to her, nervously glancing at the cops, who are talking quietly. “You all right?” I whisper. “Not so great,” she moans, and I discreetly rub her back.

Denise and John spring up from the curb, signaling the return of the cops. I desperately concentrate on looking innocent. Denise helps the equation, I figure; she still has her St. Pete’s uniform skirt on, since we hadn’t managed to make it to her house between school, the park, and Melissa Spencer’s upcoming party. I suddenly wish I had worn my pink shirt instead of this black one, and my denim skirt feels too short. And why did Chrissy have to wear Jordache’s with that cut off shirt? Besides, what if these cops know the joke Officer Bob made when he came to the pep rally last week to talk about alcohol: “When you find four Catholics, you’ll find a fifth.” The uniform skirt might not be such an advantage after all, I think.

The tall cop turns to Mike. “Okay, son. Take the beer over to that storm drain there,” he says, pointing toward the corner. Mike stoops and picks up the case, reduced by only three cans since we snatched it from John’s father’s basement bar, hopefully unnoticed due to our practice of rotating our pilfering between the many well-stocked “adult” provisions available in our middle class, Midwest homes. Setting the Schlitz (beggars can’t be choosers) on the ground, Mike turns obediently to the cops. “Dump it out,” Short Cop says, gesturing to all of us. We glance at Tall Cop cautiously, hesitating over the case. “Go on,” he urges. “We ain’t got all night.” Denise, John, Mike, and I obediently reach into the case, grab a sweat-slicked can and crack it open. I try and make it look awkward, like I’m not used to doing it. Chrissy wobbles slightly behind us. John and I block her from view, taking up as much space at the drain as possible, making it look like a four-person-only job. Four more “psst” and pours each, and the silence booms. The entire time all I can think about is whether anyone driving by on Gratiot knows us and how pissed my mom is going to be, considering the fact that I just got ungrounded Sunday.

An endless moment later, and the empty cans are sitting in a heap by the side of the drain. “Pick em up and throw em over there,” Hostile Cop says, wiping his brow and pointing to the dumpster on the side of the building. “I’ve got it,” I say hurriedly, and Denise takes over my job blocking Chrissy. I drop only one can, quickly pick it up, and return to the drain to receive our judgment.

“You kids are clearly up to no good,” begins Short Bad Cop. “I personally think we should take ya in, let yer parents sort it out.” When he pauses, I recognize that, despite everything, my mom hasn’t had to come to the police station for me yet.

“However...,” says Good Cop, and I can breath again. “We’re gonna let you off this time. It’s early and you seem like good kids.” None of us respond, not wanting to jeopardize the decision. During the rest of the lecture, over the faint droning of oft-heard “responsibility” “opportunity” and “future,” I yearn to be in the car. Sensing the end of the lesson, I turn my eyes dutifully to the cops, nod, say “Yes, sir.”

“Wait, son,” Good Cop says to Mike as his partner returns to the cop car. Seeing an escape opportunity, the rest of us race slowly to the station wagon, swarming around Chrissy, John practically lifting her into the back seat. I look out the back window at Mike, who nods somberly as Good Cop talks to him. When Mike finally joins us, John asks, “What’d he say?” “Ah, just some shit about my dad and him being partners before,” Mike says, shrugging.

. . . . .

“Don’t be such a Jew,” Russ told Denise when she was double-checking the math on the bar tab. “I’m not his Nigger,” Brian stated when explaining his refusal to help his dad with some chores earlier that day. Lying in bed in the harsh light of Christmas Eve morning, the sound track of the previous night’s festivities keeps replaying in my mind. I had eagerly anticipated the previous night’s reunion with my friends, and, indeed, we had a great time catching up on the adventures we had during our first semester at different colleges. Now, however, rather than the stories of classes and romances, these comments echo in my head.

“Come on. Time to get ready for Grandma’s,” my mom yells from the next room, and my sister and I scramble to get ready. As we pull out of the driveway and turn left instead of right, I am immediately reminded that for the first time ever, we won’t be celebrating Christmas Eve in my grandma’s old house—the house where we’d spent every holiday since I was born. In September she had sold her house, and my Uncle Paul (who had previously lived with her) bought a house for the two of them on the west side of town. There had been a lot of talk about the old neighborhood “going downhill” in recent years, which I have finally realized was a reference to the increasing number of African-American and Hispanic families buying the homes that once belonged to the European immigrants. Like my Polish grandmother, most of these early settlers are now taking part in a secondary migration—if only across the river to the relative “safety” of the West side. Indeed, few will venture back to the East side for any reason. Even my grandmother has started attending a new church, abandoning the parish she has been a part of for over 50 years, rather than reenter the community she has abandoned.

My grandma seems to be happy with the move, though. There is a shopping center in walking distance from the new home, and, while I miss the single heating unit that blew hot air into the dining room of the old house, both she and my uncle enjoy the luxury of central air and heating. Besides, I tell myself, I am now too old to play on the hopscotch pattern integrated into the turquoise and pink kitchen linoleum of the previous house.

And, even if the home is new, my family is the same as ever. Three of my five uncles and two cousins are already at the house by the time we arrive, and heated debate about the upcoming college bowl games is in full swing. They pace and swing their arms emphatically as they argue over colleges they had never attended and athletes they have never seen. The most excitement seems to be reserved for a single player on a Big 10 team, and my ears perk up, since I attend Michigan State—another school in the conference. “Sure, white guys are quarterbacks,” my Uncle Chet explains seriously, “but to have a white kid beat out one of them black boys at running back—now that’s something to be proud of.” Everyone is in agreement. “Sure thing,” Caz agrees. “They might be lazy as shit otherwise, but those boys sure do know their sports. Hard to beat ‘em.”

“Anyone want some fresh-baked bread while it’s still hot?” my mom asks from the dining room. The sound of her voice and the pointed glance in my direction help to relieve some of the pressure building in my head and heart. “They’re good men,” she whispers to me as I stand aside to wait for my own piece, avoiding the stampede of giants. I know this, and I remind myself of it throughout the rest of the festivities, planning to talk to my sister later tonight about what she heard. And I look forward to the end of winter break and my return to college.

. . . . .

After another hour of divorces, deaths, and sarcastic commentary, Chrissy has caught me up on 20 years of Nagisaw lore. “I’ll send you the memory book soon,” Chrissy promises before hanging up, “so you can see who’s bald and fat.”

Putting the phone down, I think about my hometown and the way I always knew I had to leave Nagisaw and the Midwest. It’s a place that is a part of me, yet I’m also an outsider there now. I pick up the ashtray given to me by my grandparents, absently finger the chipped edge, and read aloud to the empty room: “All America.”

*Note: The name of the city and the names of the people in this essay have been changed to protect the innocent (and not-so innocent). While the events described in this essay have been inspired by actual events and my experiences, I have taken creative license in presenting them here.

Laurie Winter's "Regretter: Lament for the Dead"

The disjointed memories, threatening since we stopped for gas in Flagstaff, confront me fully as we enter Phoenix on the Black Canyon Freeway. The voice of the disc jockey I listened to in the eighties sounds from the radio, enveloping me in the nostalgic melancholy of going home again.

My dad is sick. In five days he will undergo surgery. Arriving at the home where I grew up, I can scarcely bear to look at him. He’s weak, thin, spectral. The severity of his illness is evident in his gray skin and pained eyes. I avoid looking directly at him so he won’t see my anguished face.

For the next several days my husband Mark and sons Ian and Sam remain mostly at our hotel while I fix ham sandwiches and fried eggs for Dad. I tidy up, hoping he'll eat. Being there, in that house, that neighborhood, I feel out of place and time. The smells and sounds are so familiar–the acrid asphalt exhaust of this desert city. The pungent aroma of the Palo Verde trees, and the continuous buzzing hum of the cicadas. I see my younger self everywhere: I park out front with Bruce. Melinda and I hit a ball back and forth in the street, moving when a car comes. Terri and I giggle as we head for a night out. Standing on the front porch, Doug kisses me. Those old hopes I shared with them–painting, writing, playing competitive racketball, traveling, all abandoned now.

My brother, Jeff, and I drive Dad to the hospital. We sit uneasily together, talking quietly and infrequently. We wait for the jury to return with our father’s sentence, afraid to voice what we both suspect. A nurse appears hours later. The surgery did not go as hoped; Dad will be in Intensive Care for a week. The doctors keep this news from him.

My husband and sons have soothed me, but they must return home. And even though they’ve been here with me, I’ve been alone. This is a place that has no meaning for them. The meaning is all mine. I watch them drive away, filled with utter heartbreak and loneliness. They are my home.

The doctors tell Dad the outcome of the surgery. They say he needs a respirator to breathe. He won’t be able to talk, and he’ll have a feeding tube in his stomach. Does he want this? He does. He peers at the doctor. “Am I going to die?” The doctor tells him not yet. My father’s eyes widen with fear. “I don’t want to die--I’m not ready!” I squeeze his hand, soothe his brow, seeing no peace come to his eyes. Standing there next to him, I must hide my fear for him from him.

At my parents’ home I wander through chores, rarely eating, forcing myself to talk to neighbors and callers. I stare blankly through their Christian platitudes. I take to driving alone and with no particular destination, the city sprawling with so many different kinds of people than in my childhood. I find myself at my old grade school, see my dad gently tugging my small defiant fist as we climb the steps on the first day of first grade. At my high school I watch the spot where we made him let us out, down the block in case someone might see. I drive to houses where my friends lived and he dropped me off so many times, strangers living there now, interlopers.

The nostalgia is palpable, emotionally wracking. I am an anachronism, all alone. My thoughts are relentless, almost punishing. I think of my Dad's life, then my own. I will turn 40 in a few months. Married at 23, divorced in two years, I immediately met Mark and married him a year later. At 28 I was a stay-home mom devoting my days to my sons. Perhaps I was too young, too decisive. Is it is too late to create art, to write something of import? Have I given myself away?

Dad must be moved to an acute care facility. He receives morphine and I ride with him in the ambulance. It’s stuffy and the driver cusses constantly at the traffic. As we arrive I watch the expressions of the staff who receive us. Their faces tell me they do not think my dad has long to live. Greg is in charge; his face smiles kindly, but he asks many difficult questions about the lengths to which they should go to keep my father alive. I leave feeling apprehensive.

The next day I take the stairs to the 4^th floor and see a group of four men in suits; three smile and say hello. The fourth turns and looks at me and something passes between us. I turn back as I reach Dad’s door. He’s still looking, this muscular black man. I ask myself what just happened as I enter the room. The next day, I see him again in scrubs, Eric the respiratory therapy manager. He asks if I need anything. I tell him I believe the water in the drinking fountain is poisonous. He offers me anything I want in the staff refrigerator. I like standing near him because he smells good. I think about how I never really had a close friend who was black. He reminds me of my profound absence of meaningful contact or experience with people who are different from me.

The days pass with me helping my mother and visiting Dad every day. The smiles continue from Eric, and I feel guilty. My father is sick, my husband and children are 900 miles away. Yet it feels good to be regarded as attractive by this handsome man. Nothing was obvious or overt. Nothing flagrant occurred. I was distraught; he was professional. But we knew. He knew, and I knew. We got acquainted. I both enjoyed and agonized over our friendship. I felt the need to conceal most of my chaotic emotions: I hid my fears for my dad from him. I hid my morbid fear of regret from my family and friends. Yet I hid almost nothing from Eric, this man I’d just met.

Dad experiences weeks of hopeful improvement and sudden crushing setback. Will we ever be able to remove the breathing tube? Can he have physical therapy? Will he ever go home to Jeff’s house? The staff will not commit. They take good care of him, friends visit, relatives come and go. I do my best to comfort him, but Dad wants nothing more than to leave.

Even as the unyielding sun fades on this day, my face shines with sweat as I sit on the front porch of the house where I played and kissed boys and grew up. A family next door comes out for the evening air; I hear the father speaking Spanish, recognize a few words. What is it all about, this life, past, present, future? What does it mean, turning forty, mothering, being a wife, a daughter? How do I create meaning, happiness? What do I fear? I fear leaving this life undone, "not ready."

My friendship continues with Eric, and he somehow eases the upheaval in my heart while simultaneously causing agitation by my attraction to him. I wonder about the secret of attraction and chemistry. Is it pheromones, eye contact? I have felt it before, good vibes with people I liked instantly. But this, right now? Maybe this is about aging, lost youth, the evanescence of womanliness. My ego. Perhaps attraction is the ultimate method for feeling alive, denying death. And I know that death for me is far away. But it feels so much closer now. It’s closer.

People continue to visit Dad intermittently; I tend him daily, cleaning his mouth, scrubbing his hair, turning him. I rub his shoulders and tell him what is happening outside his antiseptic world. He’s concerned about a gift for Sam’s birthday. I struggle to decipher his strange form of hand signals, whispers, and often illegible penmanship. He becomes frustrated easily, asking again and again for the time, always surprised how late it is. He asks for the date, amazed that weeks have passed.

I dwell obsessively on his life and how he spent it, knowing it is ending. He must have many disappointments; I have so many for him. He was the one who could answer any question I asked, the honors graduate of Kent State, the young lieutenant who fought in the Pacific. Yet he accomplished little more in his life. Treated with neither warmth nor love by my mother, he anesthetized himself with drink. Why did he stay all those years? Now he has days left, hours. I can't stop thinking about the meaninglessness of the days. And then it’s over, a fractured life, lacking something crucial. Regret lingers with me, but for the past or future, I cannot say.

My brother and I awake to a 6:00 a.m. phone call. Come now. Dad is sedated for pain. I rush to him, cradle his head in my hands. Our eyes lock for an instant and I know he sees me, feels me. His face moves and relaxes. I stroke his cheek and hair, hold his hand for hours. By 11:00 his blood pressure has dropped frighteningly low. The alarms on the machines sound continuously and are turned off. Jeff notes the fading heart sign and warns me with his eyes–our father’s last moment has arrived. My wet face up to his again, my eyes search his for one last connection as I tell him I love him, he was a good daddy, and it’s OK. One single tear rolls from his left eye and he is gone.

The staff had faded to the back of the room but now appear very busy. My brother moves me out of their way, hugging me as we cry together. I hear Eric say the time as people slowly begin to disconnect machines; my brother moves to help them. They all look toward me, uncomfortable. I don’t want to be in this room anymore, but I don’t know where to go or what to do now that my dad is gone. This is what I’ve done for weeks. Eric leads me out. He takes me to his office, making sure I’m all right. He hides me from outsiders, and I am so grateful. Sitting there at his desk, I think about how we inhabit this planet, take ourselves very seriously for 75 or 80 years if we're lucky, and then we die. And everything just goes on without us.

The hours disappear and a year has gone by, almost. From 900 miles away I keep my dad in my heart while his ashes rest with thousands of veterans on a lonely patch of desert.

My days fill up with laundry, basketball, soccer, my job. I think often about creating a life of greater warmth and meaning, avoiding those who would cause harm or waste my time. My brother and I have grown closer than ever, as have Mark and I, as we eliminate the superfluous; laughing seems more important, and the faces of my sons have never looked sweeter. Eric is still in my life, from a distance, bringing something to it that was not there before.

Memories of my dad stay with me and make me wonder how I will look back at these days forty years from now; will I possess the peaceful consciousness he lacked? Or will I lie in a hospital bed wishing I had lived differently, admonishing myself for a life incomplete, not ready? Still, I welcome the days, both anticipating what they may bring and cursing Time for its interminable plodding nature, all the while knowing it will leave me, eventually.

Sarah Luiz's "Siblings"

I glance at my watch impatiently and transfer a load of neatly packaged boxes to my left hip. Should’ve known you’d hit the after-work rush I tell myself, eyeing the stream of people filed before me. Maybe they’re all here to buy a quick book of stamps.

“Next, Please!” I follow the line forward a step and stack my parcels at my feet with a sigh. Standing upright again, I nose in on a conversation going on between two ladies just ahead.

“So, what’s your plan for the weekend, Betsy?” They appear to be close to my own age--late twenties. I raise a mental eyebrow, hoping to hone in on juicy entertainment.

“Next!” Following the cue, the line shuffles forward. I scoot my stack with an ankle and pull up along side it, pleased with the opportunity to move closer to the chit chat.

“Heading to Florida for a family reunion,” Betsy replies to her friend. “I’ll be there a week--staying with my siblings at a beach house.” This could be good. “Dreading it,” she clarifies. Her tone suggests a roll of the eyes and I find myself disappointed in their tame topic.

“I’ve always thought growing up with siblings would be hard,” Friend offers, tossing a golden braid over her right shoulder. “I was super spoiled as an only child and never had to share my parents’ attention.”

“Trust me,” Betsy confesses casually, “I’ve wished I was an only child on many occasions.” My internal brow furrows. How sad...

“Next, Please!”

On my drive home, my thoughts return to the conversation I overheard. I’m troubled by how apathetic and seemingly sincere this Betsy was about wishing her siblings away. My mind wanders, wrapping itself around whirling images and feelings of my own siblinghood--a comforting cocoon.

How deflated my life would have been without my sister and brother. I am the middle child, born to Nancy and Michael in the mid-seventies. Bouncing, blue-eyed, beautiful Judy had been awaiting my arrival for twenty-one months. When I was barely five and my mother’s stomach grew full again, my sister and I nurtured a common desire and split a brittle wish-bone right down the middle. A month later, our brother Joseph joined us, confirming my naïve belief that wishes can come true. Whether by chance, luck, or fate, the three of us were born into the same circle and began our lives’ journeys together.

Even as a young child, I somehow understood the unique connection siblings share. An overly thoughtful girl, I would sometimes look at my brother or sister and contemplate the odd idea that, had the planets been aligned differently or Life’s cards been shuffled more, I might have been born as one of them. We had the same parents, after all--the same blood and stringy gawkiness. We were constant companions who shared a home, neighborhood friends, family trips, and every holiday. Where many of my friends engaged in knock-down-drag-out fights with their siblings, the three of us mostly got along well, with or without my parents’ reminders to “Treat others the way you want to be treated” or “Let it be."

Flipping on the radio and cracking my window, I feel the conjured memories of my siblinghood bring a nostalgic smile to my face. But it would be unrealistic to say I couldn’t relate just a little with the Betsys of the world. I’m sure my parents would be quick to remind me of the hours of screaming and teasing they refereed. We three kids loved each other, but we were kids, nonetheless. Like most youngsters with siblings, we knew exactly which buttons to push in order to send a brother or sister into uncontrollable fits of fury. We were rarely, if ever, violent with one another partially because my parents would never have allowed it and partially because it wasn’t really necessary. Because we knew each others’ worst habits, insecurities, embarrassing moments, fears, and pet peeves, we had the most potent ammo of all to utilize in cases of frustration or purely for entertainment’s sake.

Looking back, I view both the torment I endured and meted out as an opportunity to have toughened up. Had my sister never taunted me or tickled me sick, I probably wouldn’t have developed the thick skin or tolerance for discomfort that helped protect me through life. If it wasn’t for my little brother being an incessant spy, I never would have become a speedy speaker of Pig Latin, nor as a teacher, would I be able to handle my students with such patience and poise when they’re begging for a reaction. Without a doubt, I’ve also inflicted a healthy share of influences upon siblings through distasteful tactics of my own; but having my brother and sister to practice cruelty on quickly made me realize I didn’t like the person I was when my words or actions pained another.

Despite the childish teasing we doled out to one another, my brother, sister, and I shared an almost primitive sense of loyalty and protectiveness, which seems to be a common siblinghood phenomenon. One of us could spend an entire day mercilessly harassing another, but if a kid from the neighborhood even looked the wrong way at our own blood, watch out! My siblings’ protectiveness helped me to grow up feeling valued and loved. Having them to protect in turn caused me to develop into a caring, compassionate individual. My sister, brother, and I were also one another’s cheerleading team--people who believed in each other and were there to share and celebrate life’s accomplishments. Developing alongside them taught me the importance of recognizing and honoring the strengths and achievements of others in my life.

Growing up as independent beings, of course, we often had different agendas. A couple of benefits blossomed from this aspect of siblinghood. For one, having other bodies for my parents to focus upon made it a tad easier for me to pull the wool over their eyes if and when I wanted. I was a good kid, but I was also aware of this particular advantage I had over my friends without siblings, whose sometimes hawk-like parents seemed suffocating. Another benefit arose from the fact that we all had different and often conflicting desires. My experience as a sister provided me with priceless bargaining tools and an ability to compromise. Because of my siblings, I learned to share and realized early on that allowing others to do or get what they want can be as satisfying as meeting one’s own desires.

I glance over my right shoulder and change lanes in anticipation of my freeway off ramp. Again, I consider Betsy’s words. Even if she was insincere in her statements, I am sorrowed for her and others who share her stance. I am aware that there are many in the world who’ve had monstrous experiences because of their own flesh and blood and have little choice but to sift negative figures from their lives, so I feel all the more blessed to know I would never have traded my siblings for anything. Not only have I enjoyed consistent friendship and entertainment because of their presence, I’ve also received insights into my own life through them.

Since my sister was a bit older, she provided me with a sneak peak into inevitable stages of life as she opened the door into kindergarten, junior high, high school, and finally adulthood. Before actually entering those worlds myself, I’d gained invaluable knowledge of the mysteries hidden behind each door through first hand accounts. Because I got to tag along with my sister and her friends, I had access to the coolest styles, music, and sociality and was more advanced in those arenas than my friends who didn’t have older siblings. Having a connection to an older crowd made me more street smart in school and less vulnerable to the trickery of upperclassmen, too. My sister’s journey through life influenced my own path because I watched and learned from the pitfalls and windfalls she encountered as she blazed our trail to adolescence and young adulthood.

My brother has similarly impacted my life’s path. Because I am five years older than he, I assigned myself the role of his guardian upon his birth. I loved having him to dote upon and wanted to be a good role model for him right off the bat. I helped him learn how to tie his shoes, play Candyland®, and “swing dance” in the living room. As we got older, I enjoyed days when I watched him and his friends after school, helping them with spelling homework or quizzing them on multiplication facts. I delighted in watching my brother experience things for the first time and eagerly helped him learn and grow. Surely, having a younger brother contributed to my fulfilling decision to be an educator. Who knows what career choices I might have made differently had I not had the opportunity to teach and nurture others as a child?

As I exit the freeway and start up the narrow, winding road leading home, Stephen Stills’ Love the One You’re With drifts over the radio. My mind tunnels back to a place where I’m lounged with my siblings in our overstuffed station wagon on a road trip to the Grand Canyon, the profiles our parents in the foreground and all of us encircled by the grand, golden dunes of Death Valley and a stark expanse of blue sky. As the song echoes in my head, I feel a smile dance across my face again and am grateful for the warmth encased within this remembrance.

In my daily life, I often draw strength, comfort, and purpose from the emotions and images tied to my siblinghood. Having my sister and brother is simultaneously grounding and uplifting. Because our relationships were largely based upon respecting, supporting, and nurturing one another growing up, we still treat each other likewise and have a supportive circle in which to immerse ourselves. When taking life too seriously or doubting myself, I only need to pick up the phone and reach one of them to have my perspective readjusted. If a family matter arises or I simply feel like reminiscing, it’s comforting to speak with people who truly understand the context and characters. As an adult, it’s restorative to have peers in which I still see the child playfully exposed through mannerism and spirit, as it is a reminder that youth is still alive within me, as well.

Pulling to a stop in front of our house tucked among the redwoods, I breathe a satisfied sigh. I’m glad to have snooped on Betsy and her friend today. Their exchange reminded me of how important it is to step back from the unceasing distractions of life and remember the gift of siblings. Betsy and Friend unwittingly urged me to revel in the notion that, no matter the distance between us, my siblings and I share a timeless and sacred bond which has contributed to both my person and my chosen path. It’s been too long I think, letting myself in the front door. Dropping my keys, I pick up the phone and dial familiar digits.

“Hey! I’m so glad you’re there…I was just thinking of you….”

Michael Bickford's "Trimmings"

When I was twelve years old I became the unwitting hypotenuse of a sixth grade love triangle. At a right angle across the spreading gap from me were the long-time love of my life Colleen Clark and her new friend Judy Bessinger. I was too blissfully involved in my own romantic fantasies to think that the subjects of my affection did not return my feelings in kind. My heart was etched with embarrassment one afternoon in a painful moment that stays with me like a kinescope hidden in a drawer of something far away but very real.

* * *

I had been in love with Colleen since kindergarten, when we launched our relationship with exquisite naked-dancing in her mother’s bathroom. Behind the button-locked door we felt for the first time in our awareness the warm ease of skin across our equally flat chests, our round little child bellies, our inner arms and thighs. The part of me that was different from Colleen remained in place, unnoticed, but our peach-fuzz stood on end as we tingled with delight.

It seems to me now that the most pleasant times of my childhood were spent playing Barbies with Colleen in her room. My mom was busy with my baby brother, and Colleen’s mother had a sick husband and two toddlers to care for. We never fought or made noise, so they left us to ourselves.

For six years there were no other girls Colleen’s age on our block. I had four or five other boys to play with, but Colleen was isolated. For her I was the next best thing to a best friend. But to me she was my future wife. We played and joked about when we’re married. I don’t think Colleen believed it would ever really happen. I just assumed it would.

As I moved on through elementary school, I played Little League and basketball and ran with the mob of boys on the block, but I continued to play with Colleen. The other kids didn’t seem to notice or care how much time we spent together, but my parents did. I always thought of her as My Girlfriend, because that was the label my mom and dad used. We were cute. Mom and Dad teased us, but they were pleased by our unusual relationship. Most kids—our brothers and sisters, other kids on the block—thought the opposite sex had cooties. But Colleen and I were comfortable together, and when we showed off, holding hands and walking arm in arm, the adults loved it. I think now that young parents in the early sixties had a lurking fear of their kids not “turning out right.” Heaven forbid that we should be fruitcakes or lezzies. This unspeakable fear was dispelled every time they saw us being the miniature couple we knew they wanted us to be. But the best part for me was with no adults around, playing house with Colleen and Ken & Barbie in Colleen’s room.

Colleen’s father died at the start of our sixth grade year, at about the same time Judy’s family moved in. Colleen and I never talked about her father—sickness and death were too scary.

Colleen latched onto Judy immediately and they began spending most of their time together—time I would have spent with Colleen. When I was with both of them at the same time, even just walking home from school, I felt like I was playing a game with rules only they understood. I was exhilarated, but confused and embarrassed, too young to see what was happening. I floated along with my feelings.

That winter Colleen and I played house a few more times, but it wasn’t the same. Colleen’s smile seemed different. It gleamed like she knew a breathtaking secret. Since that one naked morning we had never really gotten physically close. We played and talked and pretended. I was more physical wrestling and playing football with the guys than I ever was with Colleen. But each of those last few times we played in her room, she would find some pretense to have an argument with me and we would end up play-fighting on her bed. I remember she had that smile of secret knowledge all the while we “struggled.”

During that sixth grade year, as the way we played changed, my feelings about Colleen changed as well. I began to feel a need to state my intentions. I was unsure what those might be, but I knew they involved going steady, getting married, and something called sex. I started by making our relationship official. I gave her a steady-ring-on-a-chain I bought at the strip-mall jewelry store with my own stolen money. Trembling and breathless, I gave it to her one afternoon at the end of Easter vacation.

I pulled the stainless steel bauble from my pocket without preamble.

Here.

Does this mean we’re going steady?

I guess so.

Neither of us was ready to start kissing and I didn’t know what else to say, so I quickly suggested that we go outside with the other kids. Only then did it become real to me that everyone would see what had always been private. I wavered between being proud, wanting all the kids to see, and hoping she would keep her shiny new token hidden in her blouse with her training bra. But the uproar among the kids over Colleen’s steady ring, which she ended up taking off and swinging around her finger like a sling, was no more than over somebody’s really cool agate shooter. We heard a couple of choruses of “Two Little Lovebirds Sitting in a Tree,” then everything was back to normal. I played along, but I knew things had changed.

And I knew the change was inspired by the arrival of Judy Bessinger.

* * *

Judy was Colleen’s foil in many ways. While Colleen was round-faced and pink, the bangs of her bright blonde Dutch-boy cut straight above dark eyebrows and clear blue eyes, Judy’s skin was Hessian olive, her face long and lean, with lank ringlets of nut-brown hair falling about searching black eyes.

I got my first successful erections thinking of Judy.

We began to talk on the phone—something Colleen and I had never done.

Speaking into my ear through the phone as I sat curled under the breakfast bar in the dark kitchen while everyone else watched TV, Judy was not a disembodied voice. As she spoke, I could see her more clearly in my mind than I ever could when we were with Colleen or other kids—which was all the time. On the phone we had privacy. She was talking only to me with her froggy little voice, telling me about problems with the other girls, about her parents fighting, her brothers smoking and drinking. The things she told me frightened me some, but she seemed so cool and different and exciting. I would think of her long after we hung up. I would go to sleep dreaming of how it would be to make her happy, to stroke her face, to touch her lips.

I began to write her love letters.

I had never written anything to Colleen—when we began neither of us even knew how to write—but I had become literate by the time I met Judy. I spent one entire rainy afternoon with the only picture I had of Judy, in the school portrait of Mrs. Potts’ class, filling every margin with a scrawl of painful purple prose.

I had just seen the movie The Pride and the Passion for the third time that week on “The Million Dollar Movie” and I was moved. Perhaps not so oddly enough, I related to the Sofia Loren character, divided in her feelings between the long-beloved and admired Spanish revolutionary, played by Sinatra—the Pride—and the dashing Duke of Wellington, played by Cary Grant—the Passion. I wept throughout the final scene as the Duke carried the limp bodies, first of Sofia, then of Sinatra, back into their recaptured city. I was attracted to the idea of these different aspects of love. I could I be in love with two girls at the same time. Love could feel many different ways. I poured my passion out to Judy with my pen.

I never gave Judy the unedited versions of my letters. She got my thoughts and feelings, watered down to the level of a commercial Valentine, in the form of notes passed to her through the hands of other girls in class. At first it didn’t enter my mind that Colleen would read the notes. After all, she was in a different room at school and the girls who passed the notes always promised not to read them. I assumed Judy would never share them with anyone. I didn’t want to think of what Colleen’s reaction might be if she did read them. But Judy pretended she hadn’t even read my notes when we talked on the phone. It was all too embarrassing to discuss. And besides, in my twelve-year-old mind my feelings about Judy were separate from what Colleen and I were to each other—whatever that might have been.

In the midst of a pubescent hormone storm, I was oblivious.

However, as spring approached that sixth grade year, some kind of awareness grew within me. It could have come from clues I picked up when I was with Colleen and Judy together—the conspiratorial tittering, the under-current of whispers. Or I could have just been starting the long haul to catch up with the girls’ march through puberty while slowly getting wise in 1964, taking in the ways of the world by osmosis through the media. Either way or both, my reaction was to panic. Colleen will be jealous. She’ll hate me. I’m too nerdy for Judy. She’ll drop me and I’ll lose them both.

I decided I had to make a commitment to Colleen. By getting her that ring and chain, I chose Pride over Passion. Colleen and I were going steady.

* * *

Mr. Clark had been very sick for a long time. When he died I finally understood why I had only seen him occasionally in his darkened room, through a crack in the door at the end of the hall, and why Mrs. Clark was unhappy all the time. But soon after the funeral Colleen’s mother seemed happier than ever. As the days grew warm, she cut and colored her dark, curly hair to a bouncy blonde halo and she took to wearing short-shorts and halter tops. She would sun-bathe, smiling with cucumber slices on her eyes. In March, when Mrs. Clark’s Greek boyfriend, Ilia, moved in, it seemed like they had known each other for a long time.

None of us kids liked Ilia much. He treated us like the nuisances we probably were. But he was a warm breeze to the Clarks. He rough-housed with the boys and, though he kept a certain distance from her, Colleen bragged about Ilia’s worldly travels and really seemed to like him. I think she liked the way he made her mother laugh. Colleen had never known what it was like to have a happy mother.

The morning of that epiphanous afternoon I had been mowing the Clark’s lawn. A Southern California Saturday in May, the smell of green grass and blue smoke, and the drone of two-cycle engines infused the endless suburban neighborhood. Ilia had been hollering at me and calling me lazy because of a stretch of the backyard lawn that looked uncut no matter how many times I ran over it with the mower. I tried to explain that it was because the ground was uneven and there was nothing I could do. I think by the third time I mowed it Ilia knew I was right, but he made me do it anyway to show me who was boss.

Later we played in the water for the first time that season in Colleen’s backyard—Colleen and her brothers, and Judy and I, along with two neighbor boys, gliding on the slip-n-slide and lying on beach towels. Ilia broke out the barbeque and Mrs. Clark, in her brand new bikini, basked on the lawn on a chaise lounge in the sun.

I had gone into the utility room to dry off so I could go into the house and use the bathroom. Colleen stepped out through the kitchen door at the same time Judy came in behind me from the yard.

Come’ ere, I want to show you something.

Colleen took me by the arm and turned me toward the adjoining garage. Judy was right behind me as we entered the dimly lit space. The ripe odor of composting grass rose through the dusty air.

Do you know what pussy is?

Judy’s voice held back a squeal as she spoke. I looked in panic from face to face, both smiling maliciously, eyes darting back and forth from each other to me.

Sure I do.

My mind scrabbled to make sense of what they were doing. I vaguely knew about sex and reproduction from children’s apocrypha as well as from the official sex-ed film I’d watched with my mom and dad—and twenty others—just three months ago. I knew that a pussy was the same as a vagina, but I had never even said the word vagina out loud and was sure I didn’t know how to pronounce it. And I had no idea what Judy meant by the word without the article.

It’s your… thing…where you pee.

The girls were not yet old enough for bikinis themselves. They wore girly-modest swimsuits with skirty frills around their burgeoning hips, but their legs and arms glistened in the angled light from the utility room so that I felt as if I was surrounded by a silvery black-and-white photograph.

Colleen stood next to the trash barrel that held the grass from that morning’s lawn job. Topping the full barrel was a newly deposited layer of paper trash—as from a bathroom wastebasket.

Lemme show you something we found.

Colleen picked up an envelope from the trash and offered it to me. I was taut with nerves and I recoiled backward into Judy as if Colleen was handing me a snake. Judy seemed ready for just such a response, because her hands were up and pushing me back toward Colleen and the envelope. I had no choice but to take it.

It was not like any envelope I had seen. It was smaller, and square. Even in the dim light I could see it wasn’t white, but purple or pink, and I could feel that the edges of the long, pointed flap were textured. Between my fingers the envelope made a sound that was a combination of a crunch and a squeak. It was not sealed.

When I lifted the flap, instead of the scathing note I was by this time sure they would now force me to read aloud, I felt some kind of dry, springy substance lining the bottom of the envelope.

Did you know that it was hairy?

Trying not to betray my confusion, I slowly withdrew my hand from the envelope. Judy’s chin was at my shoulder. Glancing over I saw her own nervousness in her excited eyes.

Yeah, sure I did.

All at once, with a sickening clench of my stomach, I knew that somehow this was Mrs. Clark’s pubic hair. It was something older women had. I’d seen the illustrations and heard about “body changes” in that infamous little film. We practiced modesty at my house, but I also remembered catching a glimpse of the mysterious stuff on my mom at awkward moments in the past. How and why Mrs. Clark’s pubic hair came to be in this envelope and what Colleen and Judy expected me to do with it was too much for me to consider at the time.

My forehead seemed on fire, but I could feel water dripping off my swimming trunks onto the cool cement floor and, standing in that little puddle of my own making, I began to shiver, though the garage was hot and stuffy.

My bladder ached as Colleen stepped closer.

Look at it. It’s my mom’s.

I think I almost knocked Judy down when I dropped envelope and ran.

* * *

Colleen kept the ring. It was never spoken of. I spent the next summer developing a passion for baseball. By the beginning of seventh grade Colleen had moved to Anaheim, the next city over.

I saw Judy only when she drove by in the back seat of older guys’ cars.

I tried one more time with Colleen during the seventh grade. I called her on the telephone one lonely night. I do not remember asking her if she’d read any good books lately nearly as well as I remember the lengthy silence that followed that question, and the sick feeling it gave me.

But I did convince her to go on a movie “date” with me. My mom picked her up and drove us to a theater near her house. She was wearing strange new clothes. A short skirt covered with giant cartoon flowers and a clingy sweater that showed off her newly acquired breasts. I wore what I considered “dress-up clothes”— a white dress shirt tucked in to a pair of black slacks. All Colleen's new friends from her new school were there at that matinee. Before the first movie and during intermission she would sit with me for a minute or two while she looked around, then jump up and return a few seconds later with someone else to show me off to as her “old boyfriend.” During the movies we didn’t talk or touch. At times I wasn’t sure if she was there.

That was the last time I saw Colleen. It would be twelve years for me between naked dances.