Stories

Table of Contents

Sheltered // I was wiping down the sticky formica countertops for the thousandth time that day. The fingerprints stayed, cement-like smudges, in the salmon-colored surface. At the end, on the far stool, Mister Eely growled into the last slice of cherry pie. Bits of flaky crust adorned his beard. The only other customer was a boy, a teenager my age.

Falling Through The Night // Madeline can see the body floating there. Just beneath the velvety surface of the Seine, just beneath, it floats. The shadows of the ancient buildings ink a temporary tattoo of early evening on the lapping waves of the river, on the stone walkway and its stairs that lead to the water’s edge. People are scrambling across the cobbled embankment.

Above Flood Stage // Helen and Betty are not asleep in the attic. They are listening to the rain. They are listening to the rushing sound of water and it is keeping them up. They are two little girls, sisters—Helen is six and Betty is eight—and they cannot sleep because of the persistent rushing sound of so much water.

Long Island, Summer, 1964 // The shark attack lasted thirty seconds. Some people saw a fin. Some people did not. Everyone saw the girl. Everyone remembers the girl. Bonnie and Barbara are twins, born just thirty seconds apart and identical in a carbon copy way. When Barbara picks up the beige receiver of the telephone in the hallway, people often say, “Well hello, Bonnie!”

Uninvited Guests // The note reads, “Dear Dad: I don’t like you. At all. And I never asked you to come visit. Dolly.” Dolly picked up her father at the Greyhound bus station. It was late afternoon. The parking lot was heavy with cars, some silent, others with their engines coolly purring, and yet others with their insides revving.

Restaurant Noise // Edison is new to the city. He’s new to this town, new to his tiny second floor studio, new to his neighbors who slam their doors and cuss at one another about silly things like taking out the trash and putting a new roll of toilet paper on the dispenser. He came from the country. He came from far away, from a farm.

Free Range // Jean is tracing lines in the gravel with a big bare toe. They’re jagged, these lines, because her legs aren’t very strong anymore. The lines she traces cut out patterns, like hash marks, between the legs of her white plastic patio chair. The lines she traces look like Egyptian hieroglyphics on a tomb wall. They look like Roman numerals.

Hanging On Every Word // Ramona and Tellie both have husbands. Somewhere. Ramona and Tellie both have husbands. They are greasy, somewhat overweight, controlling fellows who wear baseball hats instead of combing their hair in the morning. Ramona’s husband is named Hank. Tellie’s husband is called Archibald.

Trouble Sleeping // “I keep having this dream,” Marta told her therapist. It was Tuesday afternoon. She’d taken a personal day from her work at the coffeehouse. She was only allowed one a quarter; that’s how Mr. Carpenter had it set up for all his employees. She was only allowed one personal day a season, and she’d taken hers today.