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Fiction-Online Volume 4 Number 2
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FICTION-ONLINE
An Internet Literary Magazine
Volume 4, Number 2
March-April, 1997
EDITOR'S NOTE:
FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis.
The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts
of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the
magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of
Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent
Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits
and publishes material from the public.
To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e-mail
a brief request to
ngwazi@clark.net
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part of the message itself, rather than as an attachment.
Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-mail from
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ftp.etext.org
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines/Fiction_Online.
This same directory may also be located with your browser at the
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licensed to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
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other use not explicitly licensed, are reserved.
William Ramsay, Editor
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CONTENTS
Editor's Note
Contributors
"Garden Work," a poem
Jean Bower
"Berkshire Wedding," a short story
Judith Greenwood
"Miami Squeeze," an excerpt (chapter 1) from
the novel "Ay, chucho!"
William Ramsay
"Pride," a scene (#6) from the play, "Act of God"
Otho Eskin
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CONTRIBUTORS
JEAN BOWER is a Washington attorney, founder of a program for
legal assistance in child neglect cases, and a poet.
.
JUDITH GREENWOOD writes fiction and is an international
interior/garden designer and a West Virginia farmer, herpetophobe,
and close observer of local specimens of _Felis_ _concolor_. She
is the founder of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC.
OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read
and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet"
has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folger Library in
Washington, and is being performed with some regularity in theaters
in the United States, Europe, and Australia.
WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group. "Sorry About the Cat," an evening of his
and Otho Eskin's short comic plays, was presented last fall at the
Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland.
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GARDEN WORK
by Jean Bower
Tear up the chicory, lambs' tongue
clover, dandelion, grass,
those humble gifts that winter brought:
here's a new floribunda rose.
Over loam, spread carpets
of cocoa shells --
the chocolate scent will rise
with aromas
of the roses,
peonies, violets,
lilies of the valley
so all the senses
of delight surround,
and all above, around,
beneath us, beetles, worms,
bees, aphids, butterflies
eat the earth alive.
===========================================
Berkshire Wedding
by Judith Greenwood
Sun beamed through the oily glass of the church windows and
heated the women who stood before the preacher in their woolen
dresses. Emma didn't seem to notice, but Miranda saw wet stains had
gathered under Emma's arms and that her cheeks were ruddy. The
men gently strained against their neckcloths, too, and seemed doomed
to undo their careful tying. Emma would not wed in black, but she
could not wed in her favorite red. Her best dress for the next many
years would, therefore, be the deep violet of half mourning, a color
that the women of the Berkshire County had concurred would not be
offensive on the hurried bride of a newly orphaned bridegroom.
Perhaps next year Emma could replace the violet braids and piping
with a jolly plaid, Miranda thought, and be more pleased with her
wedding gown. And have a bonnet trimmed in the cheerful colors of
the new trims. Pastor Bridge went on in his clipped nasal tones,
admonishing the young couple to take care of not only their own good
characters, but to act against sin in the church community so as to
ensure that the moral fiber of all would shine whitely in this dark
world.
So much sin he found, Miranda thought. Where did he find
it? She knew no one who would dare to do any of the ugly things
called sin in the Bible, except perhaps coveting. Coveting was quiet
and private, not open to the censure and ostracism that come from
other sins. Of course many of the other sins arose from covetousness.
Theft, adultery, dishonoring a parent, swearing and blaspheming,
even murder might result from unbridled coveting, she supposed.
And, she knew, even she was open to a little coveting if Sara Brice or
Mildred Thorne had a new bonnet or were planning a trip to a
faraway place like Poughkeepsie or Boston. There was nothing in
this church that she coveted this day.
She would never covet solid, good Tom, and she was years
from wanting a marriage. She did not want a wedding dress in any
color, nor a wedding feast of stewed hens with preserved and dried
vegetables because it was too early in the season for the lovely new
fruits that July would bring. So for today, she was safe from sin.
Safe from the opportunity to sin, but apt to the fault of curiosity.
Where did Pastor Bridge find sin in this congregation? What
whispered confessions did he hear in the parlors of the county? What
subtle signs of depravity did he see with those eyes trained to see
blots on souls? When did the hardworking denizens of Berkshire
County have time to break the Commandments? Where would their
tired bodies find the vigor to expend on unnecessary activity? Surely
it was far easier and less tiring to be decent than to be evil and then to
conceal it?
The pastor wound down, seemed to struggle for something to
add, and then gave it up and proceeded to marry Emma and Tom.
Emma wavered a little on her feet when it was her turn to respond,
but recovered herself and made herself heard to at least the first two
or three rows of guests, thus making a wife of herself before God and
his congregation. Miranda was not sure whether God would keep an
eye on the new Mrs. Adams, but she was sure that the congregation
would. The guests rose to greet and surround the new couple as they
turned toward the door, but happily, it was a hot day and the
congregation did not delay their leaving by much. Miranda hung
back to allow the aisle to clear and to enjoy the brief cooling current
of air that came through the open doors. Yesterday she and Emma
had tied fern fronds to the pews, but they were limp now and would
soon shatter in the heat. The restrictions of a severe church tradition
had badly cramped the girls' longings to create a flowery paradise
such as they read of in ladies' magazines, but they had spent their
desires on Emma's home, where spirea and late white lilac hung over
and crowded the food-laden table. The flowers, they had teased
Emma's mother into allowing. They had not dared to ask for the
dancing they longed for, and in truth the barn was too busy a place to
clear in this season.
Miranda moved slowly down the aisle, imagining that she was
the bride, but it didn't feel right and she could not picture the man, a
tall man in black, who would wait at the altar for her. The dim foyer
was cool and she was tempted to stay and not to step out into the
brilliant afternoon. As she stepped onto the porch, a tall man in black
stepped to her side and she jumped in surprise.
"Oh, Pastor Bridge! I was woolgathering and you startled
me."
"Do you dream of your wedding day perhaps?"
Miranda shrugged. "It is not time for me, sir."
"But it cannot surely be so many years until you will wed. Do
you think Emma is too young for marriage?"
"I believe that for Emma this is the right time, but that it is not
for me."
"What age is a good one for a girl to marry, then? When will
you be opening your eyes to the hopeful young men?"
"Is there an age for this? I think there is not. I believe that a
girl must satisfy her curiosity for learning, understand what she is
capable of, and feel sure that she is prepared to take on the many
duties and serious responsibilities that may come with marriage. It
was not so many years ago that a girl was required only to do what
she saw her mother do when she married, but in the modern world
there are so many possibilities."
"And what is possible for a woman who does not marry?"
"I did not say that I would not marry, but a woman does not
cease to breathe if she does not. She might teach, or in a city she
would find other respectable work. Think how many women in our
own town stay at home to care for their parents and finally run a farm.
That surely is not a shameful life."
"But I do not believe you will choose any of those roads. I do
not believe that you will be allowed by the young men to live in that
fashion. Nor do I believe that you will choose to live so."
Miranda pondered this. If he could see hidden sins, could he
also see hidden longings? Was he suggesting impropriety in her
demeanor, or only a natural bent? "I think to marry one day when I
shall know how I wish to spend my life. For now, I am very taken up
by my studies, my determination to see something of this world, and
my heartfelt belief that I am not yet grown enough to be what I must
be to a husband. I should be reading when I ought to be cooking and
dreaming when I ought to be cleaning. A man would have every
reason to hate this in me, would he not?"
"Some men might forgive all of that for your sunny nature, but
if you feel that you are not ready for marriage, it is wise in you to
avoid it. Joy postponed is joy, nonetheless."
"I see my mother has waited for me, Pastor. Shall we not join
her and walk to Emma's party?"
Nedella Fairing stood like a tall shadow under the roadside
elms, waiting for her daughter. She did not move toward them as
they approached, but stood, unmoving, waiting for them to cover
every step of the space between them.
"Good afternoon, Mistress Fairing. Have you not enjoyed this
cheerful occasion after a spring filled with so much sadness?"
"As you say, Pastor Bridge. It is a relief to wish them well,
when pity has been the topic of so many meetings in this church. As
it must be a relief for you to set young people on a righteous path
instead of burying them."
The young minister blinked at the somber, black-clad woman.
"Yes. Shall we go and make such celebration as we may be allowed
in the circumstances?" He offered his arm to Mrs. Fairing, and they
proceeded at a stately pace. Miranda dropped back to follow her
mother, as seemed proper. She itched to run on ahead, as she might
have done a few years earlier, but knew her impatience would only
reward her with a lecture on temperate behavior when they went
home.
"Miranda, you must want to join your friend," Nedella said,
"why do you not run on ahead? I'm sure the pastor will not mind
keeping me company to the house. May I depend on your arm, sir?"
"Yes, of course, please depend on me. I quite forgot that
Miranda is the maid of honor and must be needed at Emma's home.
Do go on, Miranda."
Miranda ducked her head, hardly believing what she heard,
and then set off quickly to cover the half mile or so left to Emma's
house and the wedding feast.
She exchanged a dozen cheerful greetings with guests who
had sought shade on the porch, as she passed through and into the
party. It was her assigned duty to oversee the display of gifts in the
first floor chamber which had been cleared for the purpose. She
could appreciate the thought behind the practical and the exuberance
behind the frivolous. Although Emma would have everything left by
Tom's parents, it would be a pity if she hadn't the wherewithal to
make her home her own. There were embroideries, spools of tatted
lace, crocheted edgings that Emma could use to trim objects of her
own making, and a glorious entire bolt of printed cotton with a tiny
cherry in Emma's favorite red. This last was the inspired gift of a
group of ladies who had understood the difficulty of a young woman
moving into a house of mourning. But there were also hams and
preserves, new muslin sheets and a tiny iron spider that was just the
size for one or two eggs. Altogether it was a wonderful display, and
surprising in its sensitivity to Emma's position.
Miranda was relieved of her charge in order to get a plate of
dinner. Although the stewed hen was not as delicate and pretty as
young roasted fowl would have been, she had to admit that its flavor
was far richer and more savory. And the precious preserved
cranberries that Emma's Mamma had pulled out of her end-of-the-winter
cellar were supreme with it and allowed Miranda to forgive
the awful mashed Hubbard squash. There was a small salad of the
first lettuce leaves, but so little of it that the girls had agreed not to
take any of it, although they loved it so.
The wedding cake was a triumph, because Emma's family had
ordered currants and candied citrus peels from Boston, and Emma
had always had a light hand with a cake. She claimed it was because
she had haying muscles left over each year, and wasn't afraid to use
them to beat a batter until it screamed to be baked. Almost a half-year's
sugar was pummeled to an unparalleled fineness to make the
icing, and the butter and buttermilk had been beaten into it even
harder than the batter. The result was a creamy frost that resembled a
new snow. Altogether, they had much to be proud of. It was a relief
to feel that they had made something that satisfied Emma with its
festivity and had not, so far, offended any of the old biddies who
could trouble Emma with their gossip and harsh judgment.
She saw her mother lean to speak softly into Emma's ear.
Two wives now; one newly made and one widowed for four years and
still looking as if she were dyed black nearly to her skin. Emma's
mother stood just behind her daughter. It was the sight of the three of
them that startled Miranda into the discovery that her mother was not
old. She blushed at the thought, caught in her own prejudice. She
quickly added her own age, sixteen, to her mother's age when she
was born. Her mother was thirty-five and nearly as slender and
graceful at that age as Emma. She resembled, in fact, the bride much
more than she resembled the mother of the bride.
It was something, she promised herself, to ponder tonight
when she lay in bed before sleep. A fresh thought was always worth
turning over to see what one could make of it.
Late that night, with the whippoorwill calling from the fence
line and a cooler air current welcome over her arms, Miranda
couldn't decide whether to think about the wedding or her mother.
But there were thoughts connected to the wedding that were apt to
require more energy than the day past had left to her, so she decided
on her mother as subject to these nighttime meanderings.
She thought about how hard her mother worked, not only
overseeing the farm with one hired hand and extras at haying and
harvest, but joining the crews and quite able to do anything other than
the moving of great weights. She was better at driving the teams of
draft hoses than any of the men, offering only the gentlest spoken
suggestions to them and getting instant attention and obedience. She
surely needed Miranda much more than she got her, but insisted that
in their family women were educated to the limit of their abilities,
and that Miranda's work was to excel in her studies at normal school
during term. She accepted Miranda's help as a matter of course
during vacations and holidays, and made sure that Miranda
understood each of the farm and house chores, so that her skills grew
each year and one day could be hoped to equal her mother's.
Miranda was never as good with the horses as her mother, but
no one else she had ever seen was so skillful with creatures, either.
Ewes lambing under Nedella's care were not so foolish and panicky
and they rarely died or lost their lambs. Cows didn't kick their
milkers when Nedella was around, although they might be as
fractious as any other stock when she was absent. She had her own
language of humming and cluckings that animals seemed to
understand, and yet it did not sound so much like talk as to make her
seem foolish
Miranda also felt a connection with the creatures in the
farmyard, but had not her mother's skill, nor did she expect ever to
get it. On the other hand, although Nedella was a good cook,
Miranda was better. And although Nedella spun and wove and sewed
competently, Miranda always knew exactly what would turn a
garment or a curtain from a very nice thing into an enviably excellent
thing. Miranda had every hope that someday she would be as good a
woman as her mother, but different from her, too. Someday, that
was, when she should conquer her restless mind and soul. For now, it
was enough to have a mother she could trust absolutely, and whose
strength and wisdom and determination to form Miranda could be
relied upon when Miranda's own inclinations were toward the
unachievably romantic or ambitious.
It was for those reasons that Miranda was ashamed that she
had presumed that her mother was an old woman whose life and
whose expectations had only to do with her children. It would be
another twenty-five years or so, God willing, before her mother might
have difficulty going on as she had done for the past four. By then,
she would have men for sons, and with the clearing of more acreage,
it was possible that all three boys might stay on and make their lives
on the farm. But there would be no place for Miranda,
That had been explained when she left the village school.
"Your education will be your inheritance. During the time that you
continue to attend school, we will not expand the farm, but will use
what we earn to educate you. Then one day you will marry and enter
your husband's life. The farm will be for the boys," her mother said.
"If one of the boys decides to pursue a profession, I will make the
same arrangement for him.
Miranda never felt that she belonged on the farm after that
day. And now there was something new to add to her feelings. Her
mother was still young, vigorous and really quite handsome. If she
lived where there were more people, she might very well find another
husband, and even have more children. Or perhaps a local man
would become widowed, and it could happen even here. But upon
thinking hard, Miranda could not come up with a man she would like
for her mother, even if he were unmarried. With a sigh, she admitted
that it was unlikely that most girls could see a husband for her mother
in any array of ordinary men. She put away the sleepy thoughts with
resolve to remember from now on that her mother was a woman in
her own right, and not merely somebody's mother.
She woke with a sense of extraordinary well-being. It was
wonderful to actually live at home in the summer, so much better
than unpacking and repacking almost every week when school was in
term. She liked returning, she loved the familiarity of how the
dawning sun lay across the quilt on her bed. She loved the sound
Hiram made when he opened the creaking barn door every morning,
thus signaling that the day had begun. She loved the smell of the
house when she opened the door each Friday evening. It was a smell
as familiar as her own scent on her petticoats as she pulled them over
her head and her nightgown when she folded it to put it under her
pillow. Her own scent was impossible to unravel, but she could say
exactly what made up the scent of her mother's house. The first part
was whatever might be cooking. Then there was the smell of the
beeswax on the wide floor boards, the painted woodwork and the
furniture. There was always a hint of pennyroyal that was hidden
behind and under things to keep out ants and other insects. Now, in
the summer, the open windows added a whiff of manure from the
cows and horses, and a changing note of flowers, grass or hay,
depending on whether it was blooming time, cutting time or gathering
time. In the winter, there was sometimes a hint of woodsmoke if the
wind blew the wrong way. Her friends lived in houses that were
almost identical to Nedella Fairing's house, but when she spent the
night with one of them, Miranda knew the instant she woke up that
she was not at home because the smell was entirely different. Most
of the time she knew she no longer belonged there, but on the rare
occasion she found herself rooted and inseparable from the place, she
quickly reminded herself that she was now a visitor. She did that
now. It only required a mental shake to set herself right, because her
dreams of her future did not include staying on the farm or even in
Berkshire County, but in some unnamed but wonderful place, like
Boston or Baltimore, New York or New Orleans. The house she
wanted, the social occasions she dreamt to give or to attend, the
mysterious man in black she would marry, all of these were of a
scope that would not fit into the farm or even Pittsfield or North
Adams or Williamsport or Lenox. She had never been to a place that
would hold her dreams, but she knew that the place existed, it would
only require that she live a life that might take her there.
==========================================
MIAMI SQUEEZE
by William Ramsay
(Note: this is an excerpt, Chapter 1, from the novel "Ay, Chucho!")
This story is about me -- and my mistakes, and how I'm lucky to
be alive after my "vacation" in Cuba. But people are impressed by
big names, so I'm happy to mention that Fidel Castro plays an
important role in what happened to me in Havana. You may think
you know about him -- revolutionary turned ruthless dictator,
world-class speechmaker, hero to the Cuban proletariat. But boy, I
tell you, it's one thing to read about him and another to sit face to face
with him and to experience his overwhelming charisma while, at the
same time, you shake in your boots wondering if those lustrous brown
eyes of his are sizing you up for the firing squad at the nearest
_paredon_!
Me, I'm no Fidel, I'm merely Jesus ("Chucho") Revueltos Olivera,
"your servant," as we say in Spanish. To my _americano_ friends I'm
just plain vanilla Jesse Revueltos. I've been to college, South Dade
Community, where I majored in baseball, soccer, and playing
electronic keyboard weekends for "Enriquito's Hot Rockers" -- and
also the University of Miami, where I got more serious, learned
calculus and differential equations, and got my master's in E.E.
(Electrical Engineering). My family has been over here from the
Island since 1969, so, since it's now 1991 as I write this memoir and
I'm thirty, that _should_ mean I'm considerably more American than
Cuban. But I'm Cuban enough that Fidel could never have been a
hero to me. In the Miami I grew up in, there were only three political
views that it was safe for a Cuban to have: (1) right- wing, (2) very
right-wing, and (3) crazy-out-of-your mind extremism in the cause of
LIBERTY _for_ Cuba and _from_ that monster, Fidel Castro Ruz.
My heroes came from the movies. Errol Flynn, now that's somebody I
would like to have been. Remember "The Dawn Patrol," when Errol
Flynn salutes as he goes down in flames, and then the German ace
comes over the English air field and drops Errol Flynn's boots and
goggles over the side? I have a video library that takes up most of the
hall closet and a long bookshelf besides, and it's full of those old
movies from my father's time.
And take Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. One of the last films I saw in
Havana before our family left Havana was "The Prisoner of Zenda" --
and American oldies are still common in Cuba, where they don't get
the new films. Every time I see "Zenda" now on the VCR I remember
that first time and how I fidgeted in my seat trying to help Ronald
Colman escape from the castle. But at the same time, I wanted
Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Count Rupert Hentzau, to win too -- he was
magnificent, swinging from ropes, lashing out with his saber, he was
too _alive_ to die.
Staying alive brings me to my own problem and how I got mixed
up with Fidel in person. I'm talking now about last year, in the spring
of 1990, about the start of the baseball and mosquito seasons in
Florida. The basic problem that I got into that spring was like Ronald
Colman's in the movie -- how to stay alive or at least out of jail. You
see, I owed this money. Well, owing money is normal, it's part of the
American dream -- in my part of Miami, the Cuban- American dream.
That's especially so for a small businessman like me. See, I own a
good-sized electronics sales and service shop in Little Havana, just a
couple of blocks off the famous Calle Ocho, the Cuban main drag. I
say "own," and I was -- am -- the owner, all 1500 square feet of
bulletin-board style shelving and red-tag sale stickers. But it isn't
easy getting started in business. My mother helped me out a little --
but she's always had most of her money tied up in real estate
investments. In fact, she's always been a little chary of both her
money and her time -- she couldn't manage to get to my college
graduation because of a closing on the sale of a shopping center. But
she did gift me with a violet tie with the Miami skyline superimposed
in orange for the occasion, so I'm not complaining. I mean,
understanding everyone's limitations is what you have to do in life,
right? Anyway, I needed more capital to buy the lease and the
equipment for my new business. The banks weren't much help. So it
was either taking a chance on some "unconventional" financing, or
else reconciling myself to my job as a salesman pounding the
pavements for some slavedriver like Ace Electronics Wholesalers.
Anyway, I went ahead and took a loan from some big men in what
they call along Calle Ocho "the Association." Consequently I ended
up with a group of silent partners who held a substantial "mortgage"
on the store.
Anyway, by last spring I was already big into VCR's, and recently
I had started into cellular phone sales and franchising too. Yes, well
there was the problem. The phone business requires a whopping big
investment, which really ate into my working capital, and then I
unexpectedly lost out on the award of a sub-franchise. Hell, suddenly
I couldn't pay the phone bill, so how could I keep up payments on the
"mortgage"? All at once my silent partners were not so tongue-tied.
They wanted their money. _Now_. I can get the money, I told them.
So get it, they said. As my mother's boy friend, "Uncle Paco," told
me, "They're plain men, they only understand demand accounts."
'Demand' -- spelled N-O-W.
That's how I got into the Fidel business. My money troubles. Just
because business is tricky and the laws discourage initiative in young
entrepreneurs -- Christ, and I do vote Republican, you know -- would
you think that somebody like me deserved to have my life get
completely screwed up? Would you imagine that I'd have to meet the
Monster in person, to shake his big, figuratively bloody paw? That I'd
find myself stuck as a one-man audience, my brain alternating
between terror and boredom, as the great Orator spouted off about
this and that and the other thing! _Ay ay ay_!
"Fidel, Fidel!" "Comandante!" I can still recall the shouts of
adulation that I used to hear as a boy in Havana, in the midst of the
crowds gathered around the TV set at the local CDR club -- me, a
little shrimp with big eyes and bigger ears. But by 1990, when I was
twenty-nine, it had been years since I had heard the name said with
anything but a sneer. In 1990, especially, everybody along Calle
Ocho was gung-ho for perestroika, hoping that the Cuban communists
would get perestroika'd out on their ass. Those crazy right-wing
bastards in the Alpha-66 group and the 2506 Brigade -- the Bay of
Pigs leftovers -- were still chafing at the bit to turn Cuba upside down
again and save _la Nacion_ for democracy. If they could have pulled
something like that off last spring, those crazy jerks, they would at
least have done my family -- and especially me, as it turned out -- a
good turn. Specifically, they would have saved my father's ass. You
see, my father didn't escape with us. We left shortly after he had been
arrested, and by 1990, he had been undergoing "reeducation" in one
or another of Fidel's prisons for over twenty years.
Anyway, I was going quietly out of my mind worrying about my
business, my debts, and the impatience of the Association, trying to
think of who I could borrow from, or where I could run to.
Meanwhile, my girl friend Amelia kept telling me I should go to the
police about the money and the threats. "Be firm, Jesus, stand up for
yourself." That's your typical lawyer for you! "Lie down and _die_
for yourself," she might as well have said. Police are fine in their
place, I'm all for them, but bringing them into my case would have
been like poking a stick in a hornet's nest. The Cuban mafia, the
Association -- "The Men" -- isn't a real mafia, they are much more
genteel than the Sicilian kind -- at least judging from the _italiano_
version I see in films like "The Godfather." But they _are_ men of a
firm and opinionated character. When they want something, they
want it, especially their money -- in this case, God help me, my
money:
Uncle Paco: Jesus, the Men trust you, they're your friends, they're
not upset. But you know, they say they're concerned about their
money. They told me you should have a plan.
Me: But I can work my way out of this, Paco.
Paco twirled at his gold chains, letting them clink about and slap
around on his oily brown chest: "Gee," he said, "you better not let it
slide too long, though."
Me: How long?
Paco (forehead wrinkled): Pretty damned soon, I guess.
Me: Oh God.
#
Amelia always knows how to dress, you've got to say that for her
-- she's a great girl, even if she's always telling me I should do this and
that and a couple of other things that I may not want to do. Peering
out through the convex peephole in the door to my apartment one day
last spring, I saw the distorted mop of curly brown hair ballooning
over the elegantly clothed torso that it couldn't be anybody but her.
As I opened the door, there she stood, one thin black eyebrow slightly
raised, one foot pointed sideways like a model's, the smile beginning
and then growing like an alley cat's grin.
"Hey!" I said. "How are you!"
"I'm O.K. But _you_, Chucho, you could be in better shape."
Always a wiseass -- I like that in a woman. It turned out that she was
talking about, not really me, but my mother and _her_ troubles.
"Everybody does it," _mamacita_ always said to me, talking about
cocaine snorting at her poker parties in friends' houses in Coral
Gables and Coconut Grove. "Everybody does it," but it was my
mother who had just recently gotten caught. At one of the "Tuesday
Tootsies" ladies' get-togethers, Lidia Gomez' estranged husband woke
up out of an alcoholic semi-coma and started taking swipes with his
gold Knights of Columbus ceremonial sword at the family photos and
the china and any furniture that happened to be in the way. The
police came, and in the melee the shit -- the coke -- hit that fan you
_gringos_ always talk about. And as a result, _mamacita_ was now
out on bail, thanks to Amelia, and facing arraignment on
misdemeanor possession.
"I could get her off with six months and $500," said Amelia.
"Shit!"
"It was a bad break."
"It's your brother's fault," I said. "Uncle Paco" wasn't a real
uncle, he was Amelia's older brother, and he was keeping steady company
with my mother, even though he was only thirty-seven and she was
forty-five.
Amelia scrunched up her nose and eyes as if someone had just let
a fart in an crowded elevator. "Paco doesn't use cocaine."
"No, he only supplies it."
"He does not. He's in waste disposal." On the last two words, her
alto voice rose weakly into a pained warble.
"He hangs out with garbage, that's for sure!"
Amelia looked thoughtful. I knew that she too worried about her
older brother, the pleats over his pockets that were all stretched out of
shape by wads of hundred dollar bills -- and all his stylishly idle
friends, their over-bright eyes, and their red, peeling nostrils.
"How is _mamacita_ taking it?"
"The police are being very unreasonable. Elena _told_ them she
was just celebrating selling a big commercial property."
"And I suppose she shot the commission on that new red slacks
outfit and a couple of ounces of white lady."
"If only your father were here."
"Yeah." We were sitting on the brand new black leather and
chrome sofa, and she put her soft little hand on the back of my neck.
Warm shivers. "My father. I guess," I said.
I had never been confident that I understood my father. I hadn't
seen him of course since I was eight, and I remembered mostly things
like his wire-rim glasses, always staring past my head instead of
looking into my eyes. The few letters we'd gotten from him from
Fidel's prisons read like a textbook example of how to write a formal
family letter -- except at the end there were always some spooky
phrases about the future of Socialist Man. You see, the odd thing
was, my father wasn't any right-wing _gusano_, he was a loyal
communist, at least in theory -- it was just in practice he hadn't always
been able to get along with Fidel. He believed in Marx instead of
only in Castro. Poor, naive _papacito_!
Amelia's hand stroking the soft hair at the back of my neck felt
better and better. I tried to insert my own hand into the small gap
between her starchy, close-fitting bodice and the smoothness of the
skin between her small plump breasts. She looked at me, surprised,
and gripped my fingers, halting me. She undid the buttons on her
blouse and guided my fingers all the way around her left breast, the
underside moist on my fingers. "Oh," she said in a loud whisper.
"Yes, 'oh!'" I said. "Is there time?"
"There's always time."
Amelia is a sound thinker on the things that really count in life.
The air conditioning felt cold on the backs of my arms as I got
undressed and into bed. But once I got myself positioned over her, I
had to reach back and struggle to pull the damned sheet off my legs --
the sweat was in pools on my back and especially on my butt,
dripping down along the thick body hairs that I hate but that Amelia
seems to like.
"Oh, Chucho," she said, gripping what a Romance novelist would
call my manhood.
No, stop!" I said.
"It feels so good."
"For God's sake, stop!"
"Ohhh."
Dammit, before I could do anything else, I came, all over her nice
white belly.
"Oh -- Chucho."
"Yeah, oh."
I collapsed, feeling myself falling into a coma-like drowse. But
then I felt my shoulder being shaken.
"Shiiiit, Chucho!" Amelia screeched out,
"What?" I said articulately.
"Don't you dare leave me this way."
I groaned. Insult to injury. My eyes not even open, I pulled
myself down, head between her legs, my tongue straining to its roots.
"Oh, that mustache of yours!" she cried, groaning. Sweat was pouring
down my forehead. It can be hard work being the perfect lover.
Then that sweet 'take-me' aroma of hers began to rouse me, and I felt
myself getting ready to give it another go, when she suddenly stopped
groaning and made three little yelps. "Oh, God," she said.
"Yeah," I said. I subtly began pressing my modest new hard-on
into the flesh of her thigh.
She wrinkled her nose again, pushed my dong away, lifted her
thigh away from me, pulled up the sheet, and lay there thinking. "Am
I going to get paid?"
Her face looked quite solemn and I smiled. "Why sure you are!" I
said. "You _earned_ it, darling. But suppose I'm the one that
deserves the fee?"
Some girls would have hit me with something. It's more Amelia's
style just to look at me and make a face to show that she knows it's a
joke, that I'm teasing her because she's always dutifully looking out
for financial interests of "the firm." And especially those of her boss,
the senior senior partner, old fatass O'Sullivan.
Turning serious, I said that of course she'd get paid back for my
mother's bail bond and that she'd also get her fee -- eventually. My
little hard-on was beginning to feel lonely and literally depressed.
"You know, I wouldn't care, but Mr. O'Sullivan..." My girlfriend,
as she was then, is a terrible idealist, for a lawyer to make money
seems to her to be almost a miscarriage of justice. Except that
somehow if someday she didn't get to be a senior partner herself, that
would be the worst miscarriage of all.
I told her that if I didn't get some money somewhere, to pay her
and especially to pay _them_, I wouldn't have much of anything to
worry about -- at least in this life. As I said this I could feel that
what Amelia calls her "little puppy dog" had slipped back into its lonesome
kennel.
"Too bad you can't get at your father's money."
"Yes, it sure is." An anomaly of my father's position was that in
'62, right after the Bay of Pigs (in Miami, we call it "Playa Giron"),
when he was on the staff at the Cuban delegation to the U.N. in New
York, he converted most of the foreign securities holdings of the
family into bearer bonds. The old man was scared shitless that the
counter-revolutionaries and the C.I.A. might soon succeed in taking
over Cuba, so he stuck the bonds in a safety deposit box in Manhattan
and prepaid the rent for fifty years, guarding them for "future
generations of free, socialist Cubans."
The bonds were still there. So there was "money in the family,"
all right. But Father had squirreled away the only key somewhere and
he himself was under lock and key in La Cabana prison in Havana.
So for my purposes, the money might as well have been sitting on the
moon, waiting for Neil Armstrong to drop back for a replay. Just the
night before, I had dropped off to sleep thinking about the bearer
bonds. The old man had been on the ball to keep the money so liquid
and easily transferable. Not his fault that it turned out that _he_
wasn't quite transferable enough. Anyway, I dreamed that my mother
had given birth to a very fat seagull, and that all the money was going
to go to the bird. For the birds is right. Then I woke up having to go
to the bathroom, thinking about the "mortgage," and wishing for thirty
seconds that I could go back to sleep and never wake up again.
So I didn't care much for Amelia's reminding me of the bonds.
Mystic millions, I called them. As she was getting out of the shower,
I was lying there feeling abandoned by her and by everyone. "I just
hope to hell you can represent _me_ on spec too," I said finally.
"Not 'spec,' 'contingency,' my curly-headed boy," she said and
went on to ask me why I would need representation. I reminded her
how critical my financial embarrassments with her brother's friends
had become. She asked whether they were going to break my legs. I
told her maybe, but more likely they'd do something like setting me
up, framing me with drugs or hot money and letting the cops think up
a suitable penalty for me. That way, I'm not injured, and I still have
all my faculties -- if not necessarily my freedom. And with the
continuing ability to someday, somehow, get together the funds to pay
back their loan -- plus interest. Failing that, they could simply ask me
to pay with my worthless hide.
"I wish Paco would get a steady job," she said.
"Paco! How about a steady job for me -- preferably in some
unobtrusive place like Timbuktu?" I said.
She leaned over to look in the mirror on the wall and worked to
smooth out her hair with the flattened palms of her hands. "Some of
the people Paquito hangs around do have bad reputations. People
around the courthouse talk. It's getting to be a problem, all right."
"Yeah, but how about me and my problem?"
Amelia gave me one of her frowning, earnest looks. "You know
what you need?"
"No" -- I bit. "What do I need?"
"Your father," she said. "You need his money -- and your mother
needs him."
"I'll call up Fidel and arrange it -- what the hell is his number
again?"
"My cousin says that Elena was never like this in the old days in
Havana."
It was true, I knew Mother needed a man to settle down with, not a
pea- brained playboy like Uncle Paco. And what better man than the
family hero, her martyred husband, my revered father?
Amelia started to put on her brassiere. Women in brassieres
always turn me on. "Don't leave yet!" I said. Fabricio was watching
the shop, I wouldn't have to get back there until six.
"Got to go, briefs to file."
"I'll volunteer to do some brief-filing of the third kind if you'll
stay and play some more."
"It would be wonderful," she said, pulling on her gray panty hose.
"Sure, let's give it another go."
"Oh Jesse, we've done that for today. I mean it would be
wonderful if we could only get your father out! How about Amnesty
International?"
As she picked up her handbag and started to leave, I told her we
have already tried that. It hadn't helped that Father was a left-winger
-- somehow people seemed to prefer rescuing rightists from leftist
jails and vice versa, not like from like.
I heard the door latch click behind Amelia and that's all I heard
for a while. I slept on, dreaming of a tiny fish leaping high out of the
Inland Waterway and landing gasping on the MacArthur Causeway.
The phone woke me up. A loud hoarse voice said hello and my
name. A shiver abruptly went over me -- "The Association"! But it
wasn't, it was just a stockbroker I didn't know. He wanted me to
invest my excess funds in a stock in an offshore investment company
in the Cayman Islands that was going to go public in London on
Monday and would surely triple in price by the end of the month.
Come on -- get serious!
Later, on my way over to the shop, I stopped for a newspaper.
Some guy in a _guayabera_ shirt was leaning against the front of the
cafe next door, smoking. I hate smoking, I always have. As I glanced
at him, his brown eyes stared at me. I averted my gaze. When I
looked back, he rolled his eyes upward -- I could see that they were
more green than brown. Then he stared again. I tried to stare him
down, but his eyes wouldn't leave mine alone. Finally I nodded at
him. He cast his eyes down and smiled, flicking his cigarette like
Peter Lorre in "Casablanca." I suddenly felt I had to pee like mad.
That night, at about 9:20, on the way back from the store after
closing out the cash registers and pulling the barred shutters over the
display windows, a car's lights swung into my rear view mirror. They
hung on and on, around every turn. Finally I stopped in the middle of
a block. The lights stopped far behind me. I started up again. The
lights resumed following. At the next intersection, I stopped and the
car with the lights pulled up beside me. A man in a wide-brimmed
Panama hat leaned out of the window and motioned to me with one
long index finger. I opened the window. In the yellowish glow from
the sodium vapor street lights I could see that his teeth were
gold-capped under the mustached lip.
"Do you know the way to Hialeah?"
"No," I said.
"Too bad, I like to know which way I'm headed."
"What?"
"You know how it is, don't you? Yeah, I can tell you do, Mr.
Revueltos."
I stared at him, he smiled, closed the window, and the car drove
off, his tail lights red, fading in and out inside the faint yellow tents
under the lamp posts, then reappearing bright in the receding
darkness.
The next day, I had a note (misspelled) from Uncle Paco saying
I'd better "regularise" my financial situation as soon as possible -- the
Association had emphasized that they were anticipating a severe cash
crunch. My cooperation would be greatly appreciated.
I had to do something. I didn't know what. But something. It was
desperation city!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
PRIDE
by Otho Eskin
(Note: This is scene 6 from the full-length play "Act of God")
Cast of Characters
JOHN An unemployed actor weak, shallow and self-absorbed.
SATAN
DAMIEN A priest.
AT RISE: JOHN is alone in his New York apartment.
JOHN
Now I ask you, can things get any worse than this? You bet they can.
I'm going to have to take strong action.
(The doorbell rings. JOHN opens the
door. Standing at the door is FATHER
DAMIEN. DAMIEN is a dignified,
elderly man, wearing a black topcoat
and a homburg hat and carrying a black
satchel.)
DAMIEN
Good evening. I am Father Damien.
JOHN
I'm John. Please come in.
(DAMIEN shivers as if suddenly very
cold.)
DAMIEN
It's awfully cold here. (DAMIEN pulls his collar close.) You said on
the phone you were in trouble. How may I help you, my son?
JOHN
Your ad in the Yellow Pages said you were a qualified exorcist.
DAMIEN
One of the few still practicing in the United States.
JOHN
Thank heavens I've finally found someone who can do something.
DAMIEN
What is your problem?
JOHN
Satan is here in my apartment. I conjured him...
DAMIEN
You did what?
JOHN
Father, you're my last hope. Can you help me get rid of Satan?
DAMIEN
Oh, dear, I hope you aren't counting on me too much. I mean, these
things are a bit tricky, you know.
JOHN
But you do know how to do it?
DAMIEN
That depends on how The Great Tempter has manifested himself.
Tell me, what are the signs? How does he...? How does he appear to
you?
JOHN
Actually, he looks a little like my brother-in-law from my first
marriage. He seems to appear differently to different people.
DAMIEN
Oh, my goodness, how exciting.
JOHN
It's not exciting at all. It's terrible. This thing is ruining my
life. I want you to get rid of him.
DAMIEN
I'll certainly give it a shot.
JOHN
(Doubtfully)
You have done this before?
DAMIEN
Of course. Many times.
JOHN
And you have seen the Devil? I mean, in person?
DAMIEN
Not exactly seen him. He's very sly.
JOHN
You do believe in the Devil? I suppose if you believe in God, then it's
easy to believe in the Devil.
DAMIEN
Actually, it's the other way around. It's the God bit I've always had
trouble with. In fact, it's only my conviction that Satan must exist
that has kept my faith alive. If it weren't for the Devil I would be in
despair. And to be honest, recently I've even had doubts about him.
JOHN
I think I've made a very serious mistake.
DAMIEN
This always happens. Every time. Please let me try.
JOHN
It's too dangerous.
DAMIEN
I know all about how it's done. I know all the rituals. I know all the
words. Please let me. I've been practicing all my life.
JOHN
OK. I'll give you a chance.
DAMIEN
Thank you. Thank you. Now where is he?
JOHN
Last time I saw him he was in the kitchen fixing a tuna melt.
DAMIEN
You must leave. Now. You'll be in the way here. Leave this to the
professionals.
JOHN
I suppose I could stay in the bedroom.
(DAMIEN pushes JOHN through the
bedroom door.)
DAMIEN
Go! Quickly!
(JOHN stops at the door to the
bedroom.)
JOHN
If you need me, just call.
(JOHN exits. FATHER DAMIEN
removes his coat and hat. HE wears a
clerical collar and a black cassock.
DAMIEN opens his satchel and takes
out two candles, a bell, and a cross. HE
places them on the table. Turning
toward the kitchen door, HE raises his
arms.)
DAMIEN
Come Satan, Spirit of Darkness, I cast thee out.
(The door to the kitchen opens and
SATAN appears, dressed in a white
laboratory smock, wearing glasses and a
red, plastic eye-shade and carrying a
clipboard. DAMIEN staggers back as if
struck by a force and covers his face
with his hands. Slowly HE lowers his
hands and looks at SATAN.)
DAMIEN
At last we meet face to face.
(DAMIEN picks up the cross, then
drops it as if it burned his hand.)
SATAN
Put away your toys, old man.
DAMIEN
I shall destroy you!
SATAN
Your weapons are useless against my power.
(DAMIEN raises the candlesticks, drops
them.)
SATAN
You cannot harm me. You have only the powers of magic and ritual
and faith in an age which has forgotten magic and trivializes ritual
and has no faith. Against you I summon the invincible forces of the
modern world the forces of science and reason.
DAMIEN
I exorcise thee, unclean Spirit...
SATAN
I deny thee with the powers of number...
DAMIEN
Tremble, O Satan...
SATAN
Take heed of the forces of relativity...
DAMIEN
...thou enemy of faith...
SATAN
...denier of electromagnetic mass...
DAMIEN
...thou foe of mankind...
SATAN
...blasphemer against particle-wave duality...
DAMIEN
...who has brought death into the world...
SATAN
...thou enemy of gluons and quarks...
DAMIEN
(His voice beginning to weaken)
...thou root of evil...
SATAN
...intermediate vector bosons...
DAMIEN
...the source of discord...
SATAN
...unified field theory...
DAMIEN
...envy...
SATAN
(Triumphant)
...space-time, null class.
(DAMIEN slumps into a chair.)
SATAN
(Bowing graciously)
My respects, Father Damien.
DAMIEN
You know me?
SATAN
I was present at your birth at Carney Hospital. I was your companion
at school. I was there at every temptation of the flesh. At every
anguish of the soul. At every moment of doubt. I have been with you
always.
DAMIEN
I recognize you now. Weren't you on the faculty at the seminary? You
taught homiletics and coached basketball.
SATAN
We are old friends, you and I.
DAMIEN
Then I am lost.
SATAN
No, Father, you are not yet lost. Your weapons are not entirely
without effect. I wonder whether the Church realizes that. I
understand the Archdiocese is embarrassed by your activities as an
exorcist.
DAMIEN
Father Flaherty has on several occasions suggested I discontinue the
practice.
SATAN
And why was that?
DAMIEN
He said exorcism is outmoded. He called it mumbo-jumbo. He thinks
the whole idea of the Devil is childish and should not be encouraged.
SATAN
Father Flaherty said that?
DAMIEN
He is a Jesuit and knows about these things. He says the concept of
the Devil should be treated as a metaphor for spiritual anomie and
human depersonalization in modern society.
SATAN
(Offended)
I'm a metaphor? I must have a talk with Bob Flaherty one day soon.
DAMIEN
What do you want of me?
SATAN
What do you want of me?
DAMIEN
Nothing, cursed being.
SATAN
Tell me, how are things at St. Matt's? I couldn't help noticing last
time I was there things looked a little run down.
DAMIEN
The congregation is not wealthy. They have little to share.
SATAN
It would be a shame to close St. Matt's down.
DAMIEN
What do you mean?
SATAN
The Archbishopric has a lot of doubt about the value of these
inner-city facilities.
DAMIEN
What can I do?
SATAN
You must cut costs and increase income.
DAMIEN
I don't know how.
SATAN
I will teach you, Father. I will show you how to use modern
technology. You need a personal computer to put your church on a
sound business footing.
DAMIEN
Oh dear.
SATAN
We'll need state of the art applications software. I have a full range of
attractive options designed to fit every possible need. (Refers to
clipboard) Here's a very popular number: Ecuservice. (Reflects) No.
On second thought I don't suppose that program would do at St.
Matt's. But it's a very hot item in some of the trendier suburbs.
(Glances again at his clipboard.) Here's one that would be perfect for
you: Romamode.
DAMIEN
I can't afford these things.
SATAN
Don't worry about that. We'll work out a delayed payment plan.
Your credit's good with me, Father.
DAMIEN
This doesn't sound right.
SATAN
With a high-speed modem, we can tie you into Internet so you can
access one of the many church bulletin boards. I recommend
Compugod.
DAMIEN
I don't think I need anything like that...
SATAN
Yes, you do. I'll create a World Wide Website for your church.
DAMIEN
Website?
SATAN
How do you think I do my business? You've got to put this church
into the black. Find your market niche and expand. Look at the
demographics. You need young people.
DAMIEN
Young people aren't interested in religion.
SATAN
Make them interested. Put video games in the vestry. Stereo speakers
throughout the nave. Rap concerts in Newman Hall. A head shop in
the rectory. Get the kids off the street and into church and you
increase your profit margin a thousand percent. With my help, you'll
pack them in. Just ask me and you can save St. Matt's. Who knows, it
may not be too late to think about a purple biretta for you.
(DAMIEN shrinks away from SATAN.)
DAMIEN
I want nothing for myself.
SATAN
Then think of your flock. Help them. It's right here for the asking.
DAMIEN
(Crying out in despair)
No! No!
(JOHN enters)
JOHN
What's going on here?
SATAN
(To DAMIEN)
Father, do you want to feed the poor? I can give you all the food you
want. Do you want to cure the sick? I will provide you with
medicines. Do you want better schools? The end of crime? They are
yours for the asking. You need have nothing to fear. You are a good
man, Father. Surely God would not condemn you for that. Surely
God will save you. Bow down, Father, and worship me and I will
give you all these things.
(DAMIEN sinks to his knees and covers
his head with his hands.
JOHN
(To SATAN)
How come you're still here?
SATAN
Get out of here. We're busy.
JOHN
(To DAMIEN)
Did something go wrong?
SATAN
Would you mind coming back another time?
DAMIEN
What have I done!?
SATAN
(To JOHN)
Get out! Get out! You're ruining everything
JOHN
I don't understand...
DAMIEN
I almost succumbed.
SATAN
All right no more Mr. Nice Guy.
(FATHER DAMIEN rushes to the
door.)
JOHN
I wish someone would tell me what's going on.
SATAN
You're getting to be a real pain.
(DAMIEN opens the door, stops and
looks back one final time as if
reconsidering.)
SATAN
(Hopefully)
Yes, Father?
DAMIEN
I want to thank you. You have given me back my faith. Bless you.
(SATAN staggers back as if struck)
SATAN
Get out of here!
DAMIEN
Bless you. Bless you.
(DAMIEN leaves. SATAN slumps onto he couch.)
SATAN
I was that close. I hope you're satisfied. You want to spend the rest of
your life in this fucking apartment?
JOHN
Of course not.
SATAN
Do you want to stay here with me forever? Never being able to go
out with your friends. Never being able to do what you want to.
Never to be alone. We might as well be married.
JOHN
I want to get out of here as much as you do. I'd do anything to break
the spell.
SATAN
Anything? There's one way. Only one way.
(JOHN backs away from SATAN,
shaking his head.)
JOHN
You mean...?
SATAN
It would be good for everyone. I'd get Maggie's soul. You'd get her
body. And we'd both be out of here.
JOHN
But what about Maggie?
SATAN
She'd get something too. She'd get something she prizes above all
else something only I can offer.
(SATAN picks up the phone and offers
it to JOHN.)
SATAN
Everyone wins. You'll see. Salvation is only a phone call away.
BLACKOUT
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