Author: Editor

The man next door, our neighbor, is behaving badly or so it seems to me. This is not a good thing, I think. How can it be? “It can’t,” my other neighbor says. We decide to have a meeting, invite our other neighbors from farther down the block. Some come, some don’t. Those who don’t show we talk about as well.

We are a community of strangers, made friends by our proximity and the necessity of getting along. Of the neighbor to my left, we wonder, “What’s he up to?” and ask as well, “What about the others? Why aren’t they here?”

Chub Weinman says he saw my neighbor and one of those not with us now talking the other night. He says they looked serious and friendly.

“Ah-ha,” Marty Ferril waves his corn dog.

“Which was it?” I want to know. “Serious or friendly?”

“Both,” Chub Weinman says. “Seriously friendly.”

We nod at this, all of us gathered in Fergie Feckles’ basement show solidarity by tapping our chests and cursing a bit.

We’re worried about the future, we say. Worried about our pensions and our tv shows, things that continue to change beyond our control. Our neighbor in question pretends to be above all this. He drives a blue Saab with tan leather seats, wears stone washed jeans and teaches Humanities at the University. I work for BellSouth, outdoors fixing and setting lines. Chub and Marty and the others, too, work in jobs the same as mine. We know what it means to face adversity, have seen our status and security fucked with, have had to struggle and shift to adjust. To have stuck it out and at the same time, apart from the exceptions caused by human weakness, to remain decent fellows, that is what has made us hard. Our refusal to buckle, this is a page of glory in our history, I tell the others, “This is as we choose to be.”

I’ve tried to explain the situation to Jenny Darne, my buddy Earl Darne’s wife, have told her in no uncertain terms as we undressed in our room at the Tuckit Inn, how conformity is not a dirty word, is the measure of a man’s worth, his willingness to fit in and become part of the whole. “There are certain things a man can’t do,” I flip her over and make sure she gets my point.

Fergie’s wife, Lydia, has made the corn dogs and brought them down to the basement. We have beer and chips. I wonder if its such a good idea to drink during our meeting. Some of my neighbors agree while others don’t. Those of us who do not drink take note of those who do. Those who drink eventually gather together on one side of the room, near the deer head which has come off the wall, too heavy for the mock-wood panels Fergie used to refinish his basement. Andy Futts can’t resist and turns to the deer after a second drink, rolls his hips and says, “Talk about getting head.” Those of us on the other side of the room, not drinking, take note of this as well.

As we are a democracy, I ask the others to vote on what they want to do. I give them a list of four suggestions from which to choose and after some discussion I tell them, “Here’s what I think’s best.”

The neighbor we’ve come to talk about has a son who plays football with our boys on the Renton Eagle’s team. He’s the punter which says it all, I think. My neighbor comes to the games from work, stands by himself, down by the fence, and doesn’t sit up with us in the bleachers. I watch my boy at tackle go and drive the other team’s end into the ground. Jenny Darne never comes to the games. She says football is a brutal sport but she likes it when I slap her rump. I ask her to go away with me for a weekend, say that we can fish and hunt and camp under the stars. The idea makes her laugh. I blush and curse, but as I do she only laughs some more.

All is risk and danger. I feel the threat at work when I hold two ends of a severed line, feel it when I lay in bed and my own wife at a distance snores. I have heard that in his classroom my neighbor lectures on Aglaia, god of charity, Themis, god of justice, and Ares, god of peace. I see him with his own wife walking in the evenings, holding hands in the center of the street. What can such a man be thinking, I wonder? “You see how he’s not like us?” There’s talk he plans to keep his son at home for school and not let him fight in the war. I hear other things about him, strange and unsettling. I’ve shaken his hand before and his skin is soft even as he tries to make his grip hold firm.

“What sort of man is this?” I warn the others. “He isn’t like us.” He’s thin and placid, without spirit and refuses to bay at the moon. “No,” I say and tell them then, “It can’t go on. This sort of bull among us is a danger. We stand and fall on our weakest link and how can we as neighbors rely on such a sorry guy? No, no, no,” I say again and touch my chest, “There’s something we can’t swallow going on over there.”

Steven Gillis’s novel The Weight of Nothing (Brook Street Press, 2005) was a finalist for both the Independent Publishers Book of the Year and ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year.) His first novel, Walter Falls, was published in 2003 and was a finalist for National Book of the Year. He is currently at work on a new novel, Temporary People. A collection of Steve’s stories, Gifaffes, will be published this fall by Atomic Quill Press. Steve teaches writing at Eastern Michigan University and is the founder of 826 Michigan, a nonprofit mentoring and tutoring organization for public school students specializing in reading and writing and a chapter of Dave Eggers’ 826 Valencia. All author proceeds from Steve’s writing go to his 826 Michigan foundation. Steve lives in Ann Arbor with his wife Mary, and children Anna and Zach. Steve is also the co-founder of Dzanc Books.

Image by this issue’s feature artist, Ira Joel Haber. You can find more of his work here.

 

At first Antonia thought of a shipwreck. The boy and the girl peeled off their clothes, but they were on their knees in the middle of a bed with the bedclothes hiked around their thighs, and the sheets were red so she thought of a sea of blood and had to focus on the pale flesh of their bodies–his concave chest and half-erect penis bobbing like a mole from its burrow of dark hair, her low breasts and a raised, flesh-colored birthmark at the verge of her hip. They began to make love, him thrusting his tongue, him gripping her wrists. They turned toward Antonia, and as the black fringe of the girl’s hair shuddered Antonia imagined her tongue heavy like a whale in the girl’s mouth. They stood before her, the girl’s skin glazed and tiny beads of sweat standing out on her nose, and she grasped the back of Antonia’s chair, one hand over each of Antonia’s shoulders. The girl’s face swung close, her mouth like a sucker, her tongue like a dove, and Antonia watched all the ugly things rush from those lips, the ghouls and headless children and her impenetrable faith in her husband, and she slid her thumb into that crevice, enveloping her nail and knuckle, and felt a vacuum as the girl pursed her cheeks. In this way Antonia, full of spume, stopped the flood of bugaboos and sent it back into the night.

Jenny Pritchett is the editor of Fourteen Hills. This is her second appearance in Fiction Attic.

Image by Ira Joel Haber, featured artist. View more of his work here.

The list of the things I did for him is inside the black silk envelope. The black silk envelope is in the top left drawer of the desk from Italy. The desk is empty, except for the envelope. The desk is in the bedroom. The bedroom is large and the desk is far from the bed. It’s next to the window that looks out on the garden.

The first item on the list is the first thing I did for him. The second item on the list is the second thing I did for him. And so on. Each item on the list is in his words.

First on the list: Please, tell me your name.

Second on the list: Please, let me take you to dinner.

Third on the list: Please let me open the door.

Fourth: Please, let me order for you.

Fifth: See me again.

Sixth: Wear a dress. I like blue.

Seventh: Stay the night.

The black silk envelope has a silver clasp; the silver clasp is in the shape of a ballock dagger. It’s a miniature version of the antique dagger hanging on the wall of his den. Sixteenth century he told me. He put the hilt of the dagger in my hands. It was a larger version of him, down there. Phallic. Larger and sharper.

Tenth on the list: Make it with two sugars, no cream. I’ll stir it myself.

Twelve: Not an omelet. Have two eggs. Scrambled in unsalted butter. Moist. A bit of fresh dill on top. Dry toast.

Fifteen: Yes, like that. Slow.

Sixteen: Never cut your hair. Except. You could trim yourself here. Closely.

Twenty: I’ve made an appointment for you. A manicure. A pedicure. Weekly. Don’t miss it.

The list is on unlined linen paper. The paper is ecru. It smells of citrus. The ink is blue.

Twenty-seven: Close the door when you’re in the toilet.

Thirty-one: Marry me.

Thirty-nine: Ah. Excellent. A private moment. Put this on under your dress. Wear it for the rest of the reception. It’s my wedding gift to you. It won’t hurt much if you move slowly.

The list is twelve pages. Seventeen items to a page. No two items are the same.

The blue ink on ecru paper echoes our time together.

Forty: If you wake in the night and I’m hard, go down on me, even if I’m asleep.

Fifty-five: Now that we’re married, there is no need for you to work. Resign tomorrow.

Sixty-one: Wear stockings. No panty hose. Ever.

The envelope was the last thing I bought for myself. After that, everything was either from him or for him.

There was only the one black silk envelope on the shelf at the store. The tip of the dagger was pointed up. It seemed fitting. It was exactly like the ballock dagger on the wall of his den. The list was just two pages then. They fit nicely, folded once. There was room for more.

Seventy: No panties on Tuesdays.

Eighty-two: Go to that man at the end of the bar. Smile and speak softly to him. If he wants to touch you, let him. I’ll be here. Watching. Don’t look over.

Ninety-four: Put on the black lace panties and the red bra. Get on your knees and tie my shoes for me. Tie the laces in small bows. Left over right. Don’t look up.

One-hundred one: It’s a Tuesday. Time to climb. Don’t look down.

The ballock dagger on the envelope could be pointed in any direction. Depending. The silver became tarnished over time. I did not polish it. The dagger on his wall was pointed up and to the left. He kept it polished and the silver caught the light.

One-hundred twelve: Tell me your plans for the day.

One-hundred twenty-seven: End your friendship with Cleo. She’s coarse.

One-hundred thirty-one: Don’t eat garlic again. Nothing with garlic in it. You smell bad.

One-hundred forty: Leave your phone on at all times. I’ve set it so you know my call. You must always pick up when the Beatle’s play, “I Feel Fine.”

One-hundred forty-nine: Tell me what you did today. Every detail. Every thought. Every move. But first, put these on. Press them until they click.

One-hundred fifty-six: Say you’re sorry. Tell me how sorry you are.

He never looked in the desk. He never looked out on the garden. But the rest of the large bedroom, he used well.

One-hundred sixty-two: Don’t call or visit your mother, unless I’m with you. Same for your sister.

One-hundred seventy-five: Say please. Say it louder. Say it like you mean it.

One-hundred eighty-seven: Don’t cry.

Two-hundred four: Come to me, marching up the driveway, at 8:58 p.m. wearing a red drum majorette uniform with gold epaulets on the shoulders and white boots that come to just above your knees and a tall hat with a black chin-strap and a shiny silver baton that will catch the light when I take it from you and use it.

His final request.

The drum majorette uniform was fire engine red. I charged it to him.

The ballock dagger was heavy but I was strong. In its place I left the baton that came with the uniform. Temporarily.

From a distance, at night with the garden lights on, with me coming up the sidewalk marching in 4/4 time, the dagger looked just like a baton. When I threw it in the air and caught it in my white leather gloves, the dagger caught the light.

It was simple. The knife was in his hands when he fell, it was like he used it on himself. That’s what everyone believes.

His ashes are in the black porcelain vase. The black porcelain vase is on the desk from Italy. It is the only thing on the desk. The desk is far from the bed. It’s where I have my tea and look out onto the garden.

Jackie Shannon-Hollis lives in Portland, Oregon, and is working on a collection of short stories. Her work has appeared in MARY, Rosebud and the South Dakota Review, and will be in an upcoming issue of the Oregon Literary Review.

Image by Ira Joel Haber, featured artist. View more of his work here.