Lost in Translation


Our little bi-lingual house guest was sick.

My wife’s niece Jeanne had been staying with us in Fort Myers for the winter break. My brother-in-law and his young second wife had decided to escape the Montreal weather and take a winter honeymoon cruise in the Caribbean and needed someone to keep watch on their eight-year-old.

She wandered into our bedroom about 5:30 in the morning and stood there, just like the dog does, willing me awake with a doleful stare and plaintive energy aimed directly at my skull.

“What’s wrong, Jeanne?”

“My throat ‘urls.”

“Oh, well you’d better get back in bed and we’ll be right down to check on you.”

Cathy and I had been through this with our own kids, now grown, and knew a sore throat could mean anything from the kid needing a drink of water to the room humidity was too dry. It seldom meant a real illness. At least I couldn’t remember anything like that from back then. That was Cath’s department. The bonus of being married to an RN.
After pulling on some warm-ups, I scuffed into the guest room, where I found Jeanne curled in the rocking chair holding a blanket and her stuffed whatever-it-was-once. Her face was quite pale and it looked like she had been crying.

“Okay, hon, let’s take a look at that throat.”

I placed my palm on her forehead and found it quite warm. My handy little LED flashlight I kept in the nightstand showed her throat was indeed quite on the rare side.
“Hmm, looks like you might be sick,” I said.

“I told you that already.”

“Yeah, right, but…um, never mind.”

“What’s going on, Dave?” I heard my deep-sleeping spouse mumble from the doorway.

“Looks like Jeanne might be sick. Her throat’s pretty red and she feels warm on her forehead.”
“Oh, no.”

“Yeah, I know. Her parents still three days out at sea and your best nursing days behind you.” I grinned. “You gonna take her to the urgent care on Daniels Parkway?”

“Nope, you are.”

“What? C’mon, Cath. I’ve got golf today and…”

“…And I’ve got to sub for the middle school nurse today. You’re It, Doctor.” Never knew retirement meant I’d need to work anymore, but there you are.”

Jeanne gave a little cough and whimper. “I want ma mère.”

“Oh, I want her, too, hon. I do, too.”

Cathy wrote down the symptoms for me to recite to the receptionist/triage clerk at the urgent care center and put them in an envelope with a health insurance card and the letter from her brother giving us permission to have Jeanne treated in the 99.999% unlikely instance that she might need to see a doctor while he and his Marion Cotillard look-alike trophy wife pressed their by-now toasty flesh into cruise ship berths and palm-slung island hammocks.

A young guy in blue scrubs, with a name placard that read, “Bobby Dinkley, P.A.,” and a tiny toy monkey attached to his stethoscope came into the exam room and just blinded us with sunny.

“How long has your daughter been sick, sir?’

“He’s not mon père,” Jeanne said, which blew a cloud over Bobby’s sunlight.

“My niece,” I said.

“Uh, okay, sure. Let’s check that temperature, okay, sweetie?”

Bobby stuck this little ray-gun looking thing in Jeanne’s ear before she had a chance to protest and three seconds later it beeped and glowed “102” on the read-out.

“Hmm, let’s look at that throat.”

After giving her the once-over with most of the paraphernalia that had more glowing little numbers on them, the physician’s assistant said, “We’ll do the quick strep test and see what we’ve got.”

He left Jeanne and me to sit alone in the room while they ran the test.

“Why don’t you get your shirt back on, Jeanne? This shouldn’t be much longer.”

She hadn’t spoken much since we got to the urgent care. But then, she hadn’t spoken much since her parents left Fort Myers for the cruise docks in Tampa. Most of the time she looked to be half on the verge of crying. Right now, understandably, she looked like she had crossed the 50-yard line of the Tear Bowl.

“Want to read something? I think I saw a Highlights magazine around here somewhere.


“Want me to read to you?”


“How are you feeling now, Jeanne? Are you tired?”


“We’ll be out of here soon and we’ll get you back to the house with some medicine and then we’ll try calling your mom and dad again to let them know how you are.”

“Non. Want ma mère now.”

“Well, we can’t help you there. Closest thing we have until Sunday is your Aunt Cathy and me.”

She curled up on the exam table and closed her eyes.

It was then that I realized two things. Despite her being on the verge most of her time with us, including being separated from her mother for the first time in her life, I hadn’t actually seen her cry. Our daughter, Rachel, had been a well-spring of tears at eight. It got worse when she started nudging her way through puberty. I silently prayed that Steve and Marie would be back in Florida before Jeanne reached that age.

The other thing I finally noticed was she never called me anything but You. No name. No Dave. No Uncle. No Uncle Dave. I’ll admit we were as new to her as she was to us, but Cathy had referred to me as Uncle Dave and told Jeanne about our daughter and how great it was going to be to have a little girl around the house again. It didn’t really hurt. It just felt strange.

Bobby came back into the room and said the test was non-committal or whatever for strep, but said that Jeanne should get on some medicines just to take care of any fever or bacterial infections she might have.

“Don’t want the little one to get bronchitis or pneumonia, do we, sir?”

“God no!”

He wrote us two prescriptions which we had filled on the way home. I got her back into her PJs and tucked in bed after giving her some Tylenol and an antibiotic she didn’t want to take.

“Do you want me to read to you?”

Non. Well, if you want to,” said the little girl who now looked littler and whiter than she had when she woke me up four hours ago. She laid still and I would have thought she was asleep except for the fact that her eyes were open and she looked directly through me while I read.

“How you feeling, hon?”

“Same,” she said. “I think I’ll try to get to sleep.”

“I’ll stay with you a while. Okay? Just to make sure you’re doing all right.”
But she still looked at me, and I felt like some kind of perv under her laser-guided scrutiny.

“You don’t ‘ave to stay with me,” she said in a not very convincing tone.

“Oh, it doesn’t bother me. I want to be sure you’re okay.”

Non, you can go do something else. I think I want to sleep.”

“All right, I’m going to go check my email and do a few chores and I’ll be back in a little while to check on you. Here’s your glass of water if you need it.” I pushed a sipping cup on the nightstand closer to her pillow.


I left her door open a crack and padded down the hall to my bedroom and fired up my Mac. I sent another email update to my brother-in-law, letting him know Jeanne was doing fine and everything was under control. I wrote it so I believed it myself, even though I figured I had lost control of this situation the moment I opened my eyes at 5:30.
I let the dog out, then went back to the guest room and tapped on the door.

“You can’t come in. You can’t get what I ‘ave.”

I opened the door and walked to her bedside. She was in the same position in which I left her and was still wide-eyed and flushed.

I took her temperature, this time with an old reliable thermometer of Cath’s.

“What’s it say?” Jeanne asked.

“Um, about a hundred.” It looked like one-hundred one to me, but I didn’t want to upset her anymore than I already had.

“It was cent deux before.”

“Who says?”

“I saw the numbers. I’m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not stupid. You’re a very smart girl.”

“It’s just…”

“What? What can I do to make you more comfortable, hon?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jeanne said. I could see her swivel-hipping her way to the lachrymose mid-field stripe again.

“Sure it does. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

Touchdown! and the tears poured.

“I don’t want to die, Oncle Dave,” she wailed and reached out to hug me.

“What are talking about, sweetie. You’re not going to die.”

“It said cent deux. I want my ma mère.”

“Well of course you do. But you’re definitely not going to die.”

“Yes I am. Home I had a fever once and was sick for quatre days.” She held four fingers up in front of my face. “Then my temrachur was only quarante-quatre.”
It all became quite clear.

“Oh, Jeanne. That’s because you read your thermometers different in Quebec. Like home you have kilometres and here we have miles. In Quebec your thermometer uses something called the Celsius scale to tell how hot things are. Here we use something called a Fahrenheit scale. It gives us bigger numbers to tell the same temperature. On your home thermometer, normal is something like, oh shit, um, thirty-seven, uh, trente-sept…? Here, it would be ninety-eight. Umm, ninety-uh..huit. Or..something like that.”

“Are you sure?” she snuffled.

“Without question.”

“Oh.” Jeanne blinked back the tears. “I still want ma mère.”

“Yeah, well she’ll be calling later and will be home in a couple of days. Until then your Tante Cathy and I will take the best care of you we can.”

And then Jeanne blinked, snuffled, and rolled over to sleep for five hours.

For the next three days she cried a lot more, even after she started feeling better. But every time she did she would call for Oncle Dave, so it was okay.

Story #4 of my Story-a-Day in May quest. The prompt asked for a story told in first person. I put a modern spin on an old story…I hope. I’m sure i’m screwing up how medical temperatures are read in French-speaking Canada. So if any of my Québécois(e) readers, like my friend Heather Grace Stewart, read this, you can tell me I’m full of merde. Just be gentle, okay? Merci.

Things That Go Bang in the Night

Some nights, when the temperature drops,
the house clenches its shoulders,
gives a shudder, nails trying to make
a break for Florida, and the whole shebang goes…
well, BANG. If you’re asleep, It can sound
like someone’s breaking through the door.
For a second, your heart bangs, too,
racing in a potent flight-or-fight mix
of adrenalin with sleep’s melatonin.

Then you realize you’re not flying
anywhere with the covers wrapped around
your ankles, entrapping your knocking knees.
And fighting? You’ll never stop any
2×8 interlopers with your usual weapon
of glib insincerity. And why oh why
did you leave your chain saw beneath
the kiddie pool in the garage?
Wait…chain saw?

Your only defense is to assume
nocturnal marsupial mode, rolling over,
assuming make-believe moribund possum
pose with a shrug of armadillo blanket
wrapping and allowing the furnace’s fresh
hot breath to sniff you and sedate
the house until the 6:30 alarm trumps
any more temperature-touchy timbers.


Amsinckia eastwoodiae in lower Kern Canyon by Tom Hilton via Wikipedia

Amsinckia eastwoodiae in lower Kern Canyon by Tom Hilton via Wikipedia

The exhalation of air conditioning sounds like the day’s last breeze combing the trees by our old pasture. Well, waking from Lorazepam makes it seem so.

Brown eyes above glisten like old Sally’s when she’d follow you weeding by the woods. Hear Sal’s lowing? Something like “six m-o-o-onths to three years if we remo-o-o-ve it now-o-o.”

Remember how the fiddleneck always returned so you just gave up pulling it? Liver failure the Vet said. Never forgiven yourself.

Her brown eyes again, “Afraid that’s the best scenario.”

You smile, and say, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

Story #3 of my Story-A-Day May quest. In this case I used both prompts. The first called for writing a drabble, a story consisting of exactly 100 words. Now who do you know who has an obsession about writing 100-word poems? Yeah. The other prompt called for ending the poem with a great closing line of a famous or favorite novel. Ya’ll know how I love “The Sun Also Rises.” I read it twice a year. Well, here’s my little drabble, punctuated by that symbol of the Lost Generation, Jake Barnes.

Until I Get Home


The C-47 transport airplane circled the field twice before it began its final descent, breaking through the low clouds and landing with a bump and squeal before taxiing to a stop before the crowd on the tarmac by the tiny concrete block terminal. He could see his folks’ house on Beaver from 2,000 feet.

The crowd’s small American flags raised above their heads reminded Staff Sergeant Daniel “Dinny” Curran of the spring flowers blowing in the breeze back at his airfield in England. But a closer look at the tanned faces, especially that of his uncle, Mayor Charles “Happy Cholly” Curran, focused his foggy dream of life back at the 457th Bomber Squadron back into reality.

This was upstate New York and this was the last War Bond stop of the tour that the brass assigned Dinny to as blue-ribboned hero. They’d told Dinny it would be the last before he was sent back to active duty with a new bomber squadron, this one flying B-24s rather than the B-17s he’d previously flown in over Europe.

But the job of a waist gunner on each of those ships was pretty much the same: freeze your ass in that open window, defend your section of sky from German Focke Wulf 190 or Me-109 fighters with your machine gun, roll the dice your ship doesn’t catch a round from their cannons or from the flak below and don’t, under any circumstances, let them seal you into that Spam can of a ball turret riding like a barnacle (the boys who flew said testicle) on the ship’s underside.

Alighting from the transport plane, still wearing it’s black and white Invasion stripes, even though the only thing Dinny invaded these days was the pocketbooks of girls, Blue Star moms and Gold Star grandmas, the butt-curved wallets of the old guys and the comfort of the young guys who weren’t serving…yet.

“On behalf of the whole town, the county and Governor Dewey,” Uncle Cholly boomed, “I want to express our most profound respect and affection to you, our hometown hero, Staff Sergeant Daniel Curran. And declare today a county-wide holiday in your honor.” Chilly handed Dinny a proclamation to that effect in a gold frame signed by dignitaries from the state in Albany to the county in Wampsville and the crowd raised a cheer. Then followed a girl from the local high school singing “God Bless America” and the National Anthem with gusto if not consistent pitch.

Dinny spoke his usual War Bond pitch, adding his gratitude for all the kind attention of his hometown and then sat down an expression of detached sadness hanging from his face like the blue Congressional Medal of Honor ribbon and gold star hung beneath it on his chest. Following his getting his hand shaken, pulled, scratched and kissed, the show was over.

“Mind if I go see my folks for a hour or so, Major?” Dinny asked Maj. Elmont Tisch, the commander of the War Bond traveling circus.

“All right, Curran, but you’d better be standing here when I get back from lunch at 1430 hours or you’ll wish it was you died in that ’17.”

“Yessir, 1430 hours, sir,” Dinny said, saluted, waited for it to be returned, then spun on his heel and half-trotted/half-limped for the fence by the operations building where his mother, father and older brother waited.

“Dinny, my Dinny,” his mother called above the wind that blew her kerchief over half her face. She almost pulled Dinny through the fence when he got there.

“Hi, Din, how’s the back?” his father asked, with some knowledge on the subject, still carrying two pieces of Krupp-manufactured steel in his thigh he caught at Belleau Wood in the Great War.

“It’s getting better, Dad. Docs are better at this stuff these days, better medicine than you guys got in the Big One. Shrapnel ain’t goin’ anywhere and the burns are healing good. Hey, Bobby, how ya doing?”

Dinny’s brother favored their mom’s family and towered over him. He looked down and mumbled something about “fine” and “hero” and “squirt” and “goin’ to the club.”

Mr. Curran drove the family in his old Ford over to the Veteran’s Hall, where a buffet lunch waited and two taps of Utica Club had been flowing since breakfast. Bobby had helped launch the kegs and was anxious to get back to them.

Amid another roar from the half-juiced crowd, Dinny entered the club and submitted himself to more handshakes, back slaps and relaying the story of how he won his Medal of Honor. After a half hour of this, Bobby, a glass of beer in each hand, walked over to Dinny, offered him the one in his left hand and said, “Do you ever get tired of telling this story? I sure have hearing it.”

Dinny took two long pulls on the beer and said, “You bet your ass I do!”

“Tired of being the little hero of DeRuyter? Biggest soldier boy story since Herkimer at Oriskany?”

“Like I said, yes.”

Dinny placed his empty glass on the bar and a full one immediately replaced it.

“Nothin’ too good for our hometown hero,” said the old bartender, who served with the 50th Aero Squadron in France in 1918. “Never heard nothing like it when we was in the back seat of those DH-4s,” he said.

“Well, you never know what a guy will do under fire until you get there, I guess,” Dinny said. With that, Bobby moved to the far end of the bar.

“You really landed that busted up B-17 with no pilot, no co-pilot?”

“Well, the navigator, Lieutenant Balkman and I thought we could remain aboard and…”

“All them other boys bailed out over the Channel?”

“Ordered to.”

“Wasn’t you, too?”

“Yeah, but, the skipper was out, hurt bad. The co-pilot, Lieutenant Malinowski, from Buffalo ya know, he was killed outright by a fighter got through our screen. Other guys was hurt and I caught some pieces in my back…”

“So it was just you and the navigator left?”

“Yeah, I wrapped up the skipper and Lieutenant Mal back behind the flight deck.”

* * * *

“You’re staying with me, Curran,” Lieutenant Balkman said from the pilot’s seat of what was left of the Home Cookin’ Honey, as Dinny checked his own parachute in preparation to bail out over the English Channel.

“Sir, we got orders to…”

“I heard ‘em. You’re the engineer, boy. You and me are gonna bring this baby home.”

“Sir, we’re down to two engines, no right elevator, I got more spit than we got hydraulic fluid to the right ailerons and we’re bleeding altitude all the time.”

“Take a seat, Sergeant. That’s an order.”

With an oil-stained rag, Dinny wiped most of the gore from Lieutenant Mal off the co-pilot’s seat and buckled in.

“Okay, raise the base and tell ‘em we’re bringing this baby home.”

“Sir, we can’t bring this baby anywhere but down. Period. And you know it. We got nothin’ to gain in tryin’ but…”

“Shut up, Curran. I need you and you’re going to help me steer this bitch back to base. Now help me push her around to a heading of 265 and hold her here at two thousand. We’re only twenty miles out.”

With a sizzle and pop, the radio squawked: “Blue Rock 15, Blue Rock 15, what the hell’s going on up there. You were ordered to abandon ship and her hit the drink.”

“Croydon Base, this is Blue Rock 1-5,” Dinny stammered into the microphone, Lieutenant Balkman…”

Dinny was surprised he could hear the click of the hammer of a Balkman’s .45 caliber Colt M1911. But it was pressed against his ear…

“Say again, Blue Rock 1-5.”

“Um, Croydon Base, uh…”

Balkman stared a quicker death than their potential certain one into Dinny’s eyes and pressed the Colt to his forehead.

“Croydon Base, the skipper, Captain Walsh is still alive but can’t be moved. We can’t dump him even with his chute open. Lieutenant Balkman and me ain’t leaving him.”

“Balkman’s still got control of the aircraft?” the only sane voice in Dinny’s shrinking world said.

“Control…yessir, him and I got this,” Dinny said. Balkman placed the big colt back in his lap.

“Okay, then come to heading 190 and bleed her down to 1,000 feet,” the base tower sizzled.

“190, yessir.”

Dinny and Balkman both pushed hard on their respective left rudder pedals, cranking the control columns hard right. Home Cookin’ Honey shook and creaked and popped and settled into a heading of 190 and 1,200 feet.

“Okay, Blue Rock 1-5 we’ve got you in sight. Ease her back to 150 knots and swing her to a heading of 160 degrees.

Balkman howled and fought the column again.

“C’mon, dammit, Curran. Work with me here,” he screamed.

Dinny pushed and pulled and couldn’t blame Balkman for howling, as the ground filled more of the shattered windshield than sky.

“Sir, I’m getting out of here. We’re gonna auger in sure as shit.”

“Stay put, boy. Let me think. It wasn’t like this in flight school. Right rudder, give a little elevator and left aileron. Or was it right?” Balkman said to Dinny and no one.

“Blue Rock 1-5, take her down 700 and bring her left about another 30 degrees and keep her coming,” the voice of God said from Heaven below.

“Roger that, sir. Down 700 and left 30 degrees,” Dinny had his hand on the seat harness buckle but he knew it was too late to jump now.

“Curran, You’re gonna thank me when this is over. They’re gonna give me, us, medals for this action. Or the blame. Now help me hold her right there.”

“Sir, you’re coming in too hot, get the nose up, get the…”

“Blue Rock 1-5 abort landing. Repeat abort landing. take her back up and come around 90 degrees to 12 degrees North<“ the radio squawked.

“Sir we can’t…Sir, you gotta…” Dinny reached for Balkman, who was pushing the throttles forward, not back.

Balkman fumbled for the Colt and it fell to the floor with a shocking BANG. Shot through his femoral artery, he was gushing blood like a beer tap at the Vet’s Hall in DeRuyter.

Dinny grabbed for the throttle levers, but it was too late.

Home Cookin’ Honey shuddered as her nose came up, then dropped like a rock onto the tip of her port wing. She crumbled and squealed, threw up two acres of Britain and then came the boom. The emergency trucks, sirens blaring, raced to the crumpled, smoking wreck of the B-17. All remaining aboard were dead except for the airplane’s Captain and the little gunner from Madison County.

Captain Walsh died two days later. The brass decided to give Dinny a medal because his was the only voice they heard in the effort to bring the ship back to England, Lieutenant Balkman most assuredly having bled out before they cleared Dover.

* * * *

Dinny saw his brother at the end of the bar. The 4-F big brother of the little squirt he would bully and tease and beat like a rented mule at every opportunity, now a big war hero. Everyone always thought Bobby’d be the hero, the great football star, big man on campus at Syracuse, pride of the family. But then came the knee injury and he was rendered unfit for duty, even trying sneak into the Marines five times. To Dinny, he always would be his hero.

Dinny walked a beer down to Bobby and slid it in front of him.

“What do you want? Don’t you have to go back to the plane by 1603 or 1056 or whatever you heroes use for time keeping?” Bobby said.

“Yeah, I gotta go back soon. But c’mon outside. I got some things to take to you about.” Bobby hesitated, but Dinny took his arm and said, “Please, Bobby, this is important.”

Out by the picnic tables, Dinny and Bobby took their seats at one furthest from the club.

“So what do you have to tell me, Dinny?” Bobby said, looking over his little brother’s head at the highway.

“Remember that time you pulled me out of Jenkins Pond when I got my leg caught in a submerged branch. I was sure as hell gonna die in a few. Ore seconds. But you do e in looking for me. You didn’t hesitate. Never thought of doing anything but saving my life. Selfless. My god damn big brother’s the true hero.”

“Aw, cut the shit, Dinny. I’m nothing but a crippled bartender for old lying vets in a jerkwater village in a cow fart of a town in Nowhere County, New York.” He pushed his cigarette into the blossoms of other butts sticking from a pail of sand.

“Let me tell you about this war hero bullshit. It’s sometimes all about nothing than where you’re standing when everyone else falls down. Here’s the real story about how I got this thing.” And Dinny told Bobby about crazy Balkman, his gun, the crash and how he was the only one who limped away from the death of Home Cookin’ Honey.

“So I’m no hero, just lucky. You’re a real hero. Always my hero. So I want you to have this,” Dinny said. He then unhooked his blue ribbon with upside down gold star, held it in his hand sighed and forced it into Bobby’s hands.

“Din, I can’t take this, I…”

“Sure you can. You’re a real hero. Without you, we don’t have this thing. Besides, where I’m going, I won’t be wearing this thing. They give me a ribbon for my chest in its place. So now I want you to have it<“ Dinny said.

“Christ, Din, I dunno,” Bobby said, a catch in his throat, offering the ribbon back to his little brother. “Ain’t there laws against this stuff?”

“Tell you what. We’ll share it. You keep it until I come home. Then we’ll figure out what the hell civilians do with Medals of Honor besides break it out on Armistice Day,” Dinny said.

And that’s how, every November 11 and Memorial Day until he died in 2009, Bobby Curran proudly donned the blue ribbon and gold star of the Congressional Medal of Honor. He had to. Dinny said his hero had to take care of it until he got home.

Here’s the first draft of Story #2 for Story-A-Day May. It’s rough, as any first draft should be, but I think it has “good bones.” I was supposed to write a story using the following words: Blame, State, Frame, Holiday, Relay, Waist, Pail, Gain, Raise, Mayor, Airplane, Remain.
Pretty certain I did. You check. I’m done for the day.

Another Dream and the Damage Done


As the fresh dawn light crawls into bed
with me before the alarm sounds, I often awaken
and examine my world before its day begins.
Low shadows outline the damage my legs committed
overnight. The pair of smooth ridges that rested
beneath the coverlet at lights-out have once again
been stirred into a landscape of blue-striped
earthquake and poly-fill landslide.

It was the thrashing of my breathless kicks
to the surface of semi-consciousness
from that dark-water drowning dream again.
It’s never the one I hope for when I
shut my eyes in punctuation of that day.
My right big toe quivers an aftershock
at the foot of the bed and I roll over,
close my eyes and bring the short respite
of darkness I’ll not see again until tonight.

Then I’ll smooth out my day’s lonely
forced march beneath my old damask plain,
douse the light on the nightstand
and stare into the solitary blackness,
waiting in that hopeless threadbare reverie
of hope for a different kind of seismic episode
I wish to dream, to remember, every night.

No forced march of a poem-a-day April anymore. Just a post-dawn, foggy-minded (and too damn long,) scribble I felt like doing before I cast aside the imaginary coverlet and begin a new day .

Memories Are Fireproof Things

Burning Old Memories by Gerla Brakee

Burning Old Memories by Gerla Brakee

I noticed the smoke coming from the chimney as I turned the corner. Smoke from Eddie’s backyard grill I could understand, but not the thick grey smudge climbing like ivy into the street side oak out front.

I hustled my way to his front door and knocked, Eddie never did give me a key, even if I was his lone living relative. He’d changed the old locks anyway. After my third bout of rapping on the door, its frame and the glass, I heard Eddie call from inside.

“Go ‘way. Nobody home,” he said from the living room. I could see his head poke up from behind Mom’s floral couch, the one she left Eddie and me when we got her house and it contents in her will. I sold Eddie half of my half.

“C’mon, Eddie, open up. What the hell you doing in there,” I shouted through the old mail slot. I could smell smoke coming from within.

From behind the old lace sheer curtains on the door window, I could see the fuzzed up image of my big brother coming my way, feel his stomping tread on the floor all the way out to the front porch. I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy visit.

Eddie unlocked the door, opened it about ten inches against his foot and gave me a look like I was his third Jehovah’s Witness at the door that day. I wasn’t, but I was still mighty interested in my brother’s well-being. It was my job now.

“What the hell do you want? I told you I was busy,” he said.

“I tried calling you to say I was coming over, just to say hi and see how you’re doing. You never answered or returned any of my messages.”

“I been busy. Besides I told you I didn’t want to see you over here. It’s my house now and I’ll decide who to let in,” Eddie said. He started closing the door, not slamming it for a change, but this time it was my foot that braced against its bottom. I gave it a hard push back into the foyer, knocking Eddie back with it.

“God damn it, Charlie, I think you broke my nose,” Eddie said.

“You’re lucky I don’t break your neck,” I said, trying to maintain the self-imposed adult demeanor I’d developed in helping Mom with Eddie, as well as in defending my brother and his issues for most of our lives.

“I got a call from Melody that you’re not speaking with her these days either. What’s going on, man?”

“Nothing that concerns you…or her. Now get the hell out of my house.”

“Still a piece of mine, man. And I want to make sure you’re not destroying that piece. Now what the hell you bring in the fireplace on a 85-degree day in July?” I said.

“I told you. None of your business.”

“I pushed past Eddie in the foyer and strode into the living room, where that smoke I was outside was also clouding the room from the fireplace up to the ceiling.

“One, you shouldn’t be burning anything, at any time. Two, I closed the flue back in April, so that’s why it looks like a fog in here. It’s a wonder you haven’t keeled over from carbon monoxide. Three, open the fucking windows so we can get this smoke out of here so at least I don’t die today. And finally, four, What’re you burning, anyway?” I said.

“None of your business, little brother. None of anybody’s business now.” Eddie said. He pouted and stomped around the first floor opening the windows and back door.

The room looked as neat as ever, Eddie being a fastidious guy, even if sometimes his mind left most of its toys out for us all, mostly Eddie, to trip over. But there in front of the hearth, an old cardboard box stood tipped on its side, piles of old black and white and faded Polaroid photos scattered in an arc along the floor as if they were marching their way into the fireplace.

It was the box of family photos Mom kept on the top shelf in her closet. I hadn’t seen it for years. Never looked in the closet after she died, except to give her clothes to Goodwill. That’s thrown Eddie for a loop, like we were erasing Mom from the place like we erased her from the world by burying her.

“Now what’s the deal, Ed. This isn’t like you at all. It’s okay to go through Mom’s pictures, of course, but what’re yu doing during the damn things? What if I wanted to see them?”

“No.” Eddie’s face turned red and his eyes looked like they would burst into tears at any moment. “You don’t want to see these people anymore. And I really don’t. You don’t know what I do.”

I kind of doubted that, since I was the only member of our family to ever go to college and Eddie, well Eddie went to his school, but no further.

“Talk to me, bro. We’re in this together, right? With Mom gone, we gotta work together to make it through. Now what is it you know that I don’t?”

Eddie picked up four or five more photographs off the pile and tossed them into the shrinking fire. As he picked through some more, I grabbed them from his hand and said, “Stop this. What’s going on?”

He nodded at my hand, in which I now held three photos of Mom and Grandpa, Grandma and Grandpa and one of all of us at some Christmas back I don’t know when.

“There, ya see now?” Eddie said.

“No, just pictures of Mom. Why’d you want to burn pictures of Mom. I’d never expect this shit from you.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Eddie said and kicked a little book, its cover a faded pink with a rainbow drawn in the lower right of its cover. The top corner read: Missy Bruno. Mom.

“Open it. Open it anywhere and read. I found it in the attic. In a little chest stuck in the corner. You’ll see.”

I could see the pages had been pulled back and the dust freshly smudged by I assume Eddie. I looked at the page that was opened by Eddie’s kick. It read:
D came in agin last night. And he did it agin. I asked him why. He said cause he loves me. But I cant tell M cause she wouldn’t understand and be upset with me. That’s what D said. Confused.

“The whole fucking thing is full of that stuff,” Eddie said, calmer but still angry. “I’d kill that old bastard if I could get my hands on him.”

I finally got it.

“Are there any more of these?”

“Lots. Burned them.”

“They all say the same thing? That Grandpa abused Mom?”

“Yeah, and a lot more.”

“Like what?” I said, not really sure I wanted an answer.

“Like about me. About Grandpa. Him, mom and me. And you.” Eddie said, and then his eyes finally let go, and not from the smoke.

I spent the next few nights with Ed. Got us both settled. And we burned every one of that bastard’s pictures. But memories are fireproof things. Not sure Eddie and I can bury those along with poor Mom.

Here’s the first of my stories for the Story A Day may challenge I crazily accepted the day after I completed Poem A Day April. I may not share them all with you, but I figured I’d give you this first draft (and I mean totally untouched by editorial hand, no time) of a story I was prompted to write in 30 minutes. Just made it. I write fast, but unfortunately these days I think much too slowly. Product of the muck of too many memories, maybe.


Moving to the cul-de-sac,
this city boy already keow there’s
only one way in. Just turn right for
a quarter-mile or so, past kissing-cousin duplexes
cuddling in their allegedly chaste suburban way.
Where the road rises you come upon the ring
of homes where I live, realize your mistake
and drive ’round the grassy circle at its heart
back into the world.

I’ve imagined driving faster and
faster in a fescue-centered orbit
as houses flash by in their glassy-eyed
oh-so-attentive-to-everyone-else’s-lawn way.
It feels like I’m their grade-schooler alone
on the merry go round or another neighbor’s
teen making my first solo in the family SUV.

I wonder if that’s how you reach
escape velocity out of here.
I mean besides driving out that road
you came in on. I guess there are those
idle reveries over a lawn tractor’s front end,
perhaps some multi-cocktail-lubed daydreams
or maybe that long-ago nightmare
come fatally true,

Each could be one of the few ways I can
think of bidding au revoir to where
all kinds of dreams, from American to unmet,
can stop, and drop roll or maybe just
keep on circling in place, going nowhere, really.
But I guess that’s what cul-de-sac means.
It’s just a fancy dead end en francais.

Poem number 30, the last of this year’s Poem-A-Day NaPoWriMo. The call was for a “dead end” poem. Well, I’m dead to this project at the end for another year, even though I tend to write something new every day. Tomorrow, I try my hand at a story each day in May. So hang in there, dear reader. This could get ugly.