I've started posting the chapters of Resolution 786. I'll post each successive chapter roughly every 3 or 4 days. Here's Chapter 18:
Adam and Becca sat on a wide stone fence on the Mt. of Olives overlooking the Kidron Valley, across from Jerusalem’s Old City. The minarets, synagogues and churches looked serene and still in the setting sun, a gold dome topping boxes and towers of beige and gray.
“Can you believe we’re here?” Becca flashed her toothy, dimpled smile at Adam.
Adam closed his eyes a moment and frowned. His words were laced with sorrow. “I wish Mom could have joined us.”
“Me, too,” said Becca.
She waited, giving Adam time to untangle himself from the thicket of melancholy.
“God’s a shit,” he said, head down, an angry tone.
“Adam,” she said and stopped. She had heard the rant before and didn’t want to have it ruin their time away from home. “Please try to let it go.” She watched him, anxious.
They sat in silence as the evening grew darker and the faraway cars vanished into moving headlights.
“I really liked that church,” Adam said, changing the subject.
“Which one, Einstein?” she teased.
“The one where Jesus taught the Lord’s Prayer to his disciples. It was peaceful. I liked the plants…the open sky roof…and how all those tablets looked on the wall, written in all those beautiful scripts and languages.”
Becca gazed at him lovingly, reminded of how attractive she found his appreciation of beauty. “I thought the tablets were the Ten Commandments,” she said. “I’m surprised that the weeble-wobble nun there didn’t crack my knuckles with a ruler when I said that. Did you see the look on her face? Man! Wouldn’t ‘a been the first time I got the ruler.”
“No, Silly Rabbit, it’s not the Ten Commandments,” Adam teased in a mocking voice.
“Shut up!” she protested, half annoyed, half in jest.
“Yeah, you shut me up,” he provoked in a playground tone.
“I will,” she said.
“Yeah, you and what army?
“Becca’s Brigade,” eyes squinted in feigned anger.
“And exactly who are they?” shrugging off the threat.
She suddenly thrust her head forward and pressed a smacking kiss on his mouth and then pulled back sharply, staring at him with a half smile on her face, her lips stretched thin from side to side.
Adam’s eyes twinkled as he chuckled at her in the evening light. He became quiet and still in soft, slow increments. His head tilted down gently and he confided, “I felt bad.”
“Adi, what’s wrong?” Becca put an open palm on his hunched shoulder.
“I felt bad when you guys all said the prayer together and I didn’t know the words.”
“You mean the Lord’s Prayer?”
“Yeah.”
“I can teach you. Mum-mum taught me,” she said eagerly.
He looked up at her, wanting to thank her but before he could, she excitedly pursued her idea. “Listen, ‘cause here goes,” she blurted, animated. “I’ll say the whole thing through, then we’ll do the smaller pieces over with you following along.” She brought her hands together in front of her chest, each in a lazy OK sign. “Remember,” she told him, “It’s even easier than ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider.’ OK?”
“OK.”
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
Becca took a breath, falling quiet for a moment. Her gray eyes moved up to the right briefly, then came back down, resting on Adam’s face. A soft, blurred smile floated across her mouth as her lips moved to excavate antique words from layered strata of childhood memories. “Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.” He watched her recite the prayer, admiring the shifting planes and curves of her face as they caught and caressed shadow after shadow in the surrendering daylight. “Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.” Her voice skipped through the evening air in lovely, tender hops. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power and the glory, for ever. Amen.”
The smile on her face grew wide when she finished reciting the prayer. She quietly peered at him. Curls of brown made a tousled, flowing frame around her luminous face, her freckles playing like fading ghosts underneath her eyes. A crisping stream of air suddenly lifted a mist of perfume from underneath her ear and sprinkled it onto Adam’s face like wedding rice.
“So you want to learn, Baby Cakes?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
So Be It, Part II [Chapter 17]
I've started posting the chapters of Resolution 786. I'll post each successive chapter roughly every 3 or 4 days. Here's Chapter 17:
Two days later, Fatima smiled from her hospital bed. Her dark eyes beamed. Rosiness had caravanned back into her cheeks. “How was the dinner, Adam?” she asked, a lively tone.
“OK. We missed you. I wish you hadn’t asked us to have the dinner while you’re in the hospital. I wasn’t comfortable. Becca did some great cooking. We really missed you.”
“Our losses hurt more than our gains please,” Fatima laughed, cheerful. “Choose to be happy,” she counseled, adding in her native Punjabi, “You should get married.”
Adam deflected, replying in English. “You need to get better and back home.”
“I want to hold your baby. I want to hear his silly questions,” said Fatima, eyes twinkling. “I want to see him talk back to you and push his mind against the world and against God, like you do.” She put her hand on top of Adam’s, lovingly. “I want to see him make you crazy like you made me.”
“They’re running a set of follow-up tests, Mom. I think they got the infection.”
“Becca is a good girl.” Fatima began to sound weak again.
“I’m going to go check on those test results,” said Adam.
“When you come back, bring me my hairbrush. I want to brush my hair,” she said, speaking Punjabi again.
“I will.”
Adam left, walking about the wide, bright halls, lost, one ear listening to the disembodied voices over the hospital intercom, the other catching snippets of this or that conversation as he moved past room after room. He stopped, looking down a moment, wondering whether the doctor’s office was on this floor or on the one above. He couldn’t remember and decided to go back to the room and ask his mother.
The hospital room was different when Adam returned. Fatima was convulsing in pain, a nurse by her side.
“Where does it hurt?” shouted the nurse.
“Everywhere!” Fatima said, writhing. “Pain is here, here, here,” she said as she placed her inwardly curved fingers above her breast, on her sternum, on her stomach, noting each locus of suffering.
“I’m going to give you something for the pain,” the nurse shouted to Fatima. “Tell me when it stops.”
Fatima winced, crying without tears while Adam watched through terrified eyes, frozen. A doctor burst into the room, rushed to Fatima and began moving her arms about feverishly, her back to Adam.
“Less pain?” the nurse yelled.
“No,” said Fatima, a small, scared voice.
Adam heard his mother gasp. The women over her shouted amid a heightened shuffle of unseen motions. A sorrowed scent of musk and sandalwood moved through the air, mixing tenderly into the unobservable blue radiance that had begun parting from the world in yielding sighs of echoed pulses. Adam watched everything in the room suddenly tighten into a crisp, hard focus. The floor gave way abruptly, tilting under Adam’s feet and the razor-sharp images of the hospital room dulled into a tear-soaked blur.
Fatima was no longer in the room.
Two days later, Fatima smiled from her hospital bed. Her dark eyes beamed. Rosiness had caravanned back into her cheeks. “How was the dinner, Adam?” she asked, a lively tone.
“OK. We missed you. I wish you hadn’t asked us to have the dinner while you’re in the hospital. I wasn’t comfortable. Becca did some great cooking. We really missed you.”
“Our losses hurt more than our gains please,” Fatima laughed, cheerful. “Choose to be happy,” she counseled, adding in her native Punjabi, “You should get married.”
Adam deflected, replying in English. “You need to get better and back home.”
“I want to hold your baby. I want to hear his silly questions,” said Fatima, eyes twinkling. “I want to see him talk back to you and push his mind against the world and against God, like you do.” She put her hand on top of Adam’s, lovingly. “I want to see him make you crazy like you made me.”
“They’re running a set of follow-up tests, Mom. I think they got the infection.”
“Becca is a good girl.” Fatima began to sound weak again.
“I’m going to go check on those test results,” said Adam.
“When you come back, bring me my hairbrush. I want to brush my hair,” she said, speaking Punjabi again.
“I will.”
Adam left, walking about the wide, bright halls, lost, one ear listening to the disembodied voices over the hospital intercom, the other catching snippets of this or that conversation as he moved past room after room. He stopped, looking down a moment, wondering whether the doctor’s office was on this floor or on the one above. He couldn’t remember and decided to go back to the room and ask his mother.
The hospital room was different when Adam returned. Fatima was convulsing in pain, a nurse by her side.
“Where does it hurt?” shouted the nurse.
“Everywhere!” Fatima said, writhing. “Pain is here, here, here,” she said as she placed her inwardly curved fingers above her breast, on her sternum, on her stomach, noting each locus of suffering.
“I’m going to give you something for the pain,” the nurse shouted to Fatima. “Tell me when it stops.”
Fatima winced, crying without tears while Adam watched through terrified eyes, frozen. A doctor burst into the room, rushed to Fatima and began moving her arms about feverishly, her back to Adam.
“Less pain?” the nurse yelled.
“No,” said Fatima, a small, scared voice.
Adam heard his mother gasp. The women over her shouted amid a heightened shuffle of unseen motions. A sorrowed scent of musk and sandalwood moved through the air, mixing tenderly into the unobservable blue radiance that had begun parting from the world in yielding sighs of echoed pulses. Adam watched everything in the room suddenly tighten into a crisp, hard focus. The floor gave way abruptly, tilting under Adam’s feet and the razor-sharp images of the hospital room dulled into a tear-soaked blur.
Fatima was no longer in the room.
All the King's Horses and All the King's Men [Chapter 16]
I've started posting the chapters of Resolution 786. I'll post each successive chapter roughly every 3 or 4 days. Here's Chapter 16:
Fatima Hueghlomm had been admitted to the hospital unexpectedly. The night before she was excitedly picking out an outfit to wear to Adam and Becca’s weekend dinner party. Her lower back hurt the next morning. By noon, a screaming ambulance whisked her to a local emergency room.
Becca and Adam spent most of the evening at the hospital, difficult hours receiving a flurry of status reports, test results and evolving prognoses. They sat in the uncomfortable hospital chairs, watching Fatima rest. Tilted back in her hospital bed, needles and tubes running into the top of one hand, haggard and worn, Fatima insisted, “Have your dinner party. Don’t disappoint all those people.”
“Mom, that’s ridiculous,” snapped Adam, his voice weighted with worry.
“Mom, rest,” said Becca. She turned to Adam and muttered, “You too.”
Adam’s eyes dropped to the floor as he retreated into himself.
“We spoke to Dr. Patel,” Becca told Fatima. “He says they’re running some pretty strong antibiotics through your system. They want to make sure that they get the kidney infection. They’ll keep an eye on you for a couple of days. You should be home soon.”
“Ummm,” said Fatima. She slowly added, “Take Adam home. He should eat.”
“I will, Mom,” said Becca. “I’ll take care of him.”
Fatima Hueghlomm had been admitted to the hospital unexpectedly. The night before she was excitedly picking out an outfit to wear to Adam and Becca’s weekend dinner party. Her lower back hurt the next morning. By noon, a screaming ambulance whisked her to a local emergency room.
Becca and Adam spent most of the evening at the hospital, difficult hours receiving a flurry of status reports, test results and evolving prognoses. They sat in the uncomfortable hospital chairs, watching Fatima rest. Tilted back in her hospital bed, needles and tubes running into the top of one hand, haggard and worn, Fatima insisted, “Have your dinner party. Don’t disappoint all those people.”
“Mom, that’s ridiculous,” snapped Adam, his voice weighted with worry.
“Mom, rest,” said Becca. She turned to Adam and muttered, “You too.”
Adam’s eyes dropped to the floor as he retreated into himself.
“We spoke to Dr. Patel,” Becca told Fatima. “He says they’re running some pretty strong antibiotics through your system. They want to make sure that they get the kidney infection. They’ll keep an eye on you for a couple of days. You should be home soon.”
“Ummm,” said Fatima. She slowly added, “Take Adam home. He should eat.”
“I will, Mom,” said Becca. “I’ll take care of him.”
What Are You Thinking? [Chapter 15]
I've started posting the chapters of Resolution 786. I'll post each successive chapter roughly every 3 or 4 days. Here's Chapter 15. For those of you not familiar with literary cubism, I chose to make Chapter 15 a poem:
What Are You Thinking?
There are no headlines on the newspapers today
And the clock's second hand won't move
And I, I've become humanity's whore
Plunging back into my iris
Collecting every tear since Eve,
Tasting every spite since Adam
Vomiting the twisted panorama into my heart
Hurting, I've burst back through my pupils
Into now, the living day
I watch sunlight dance in prisms
Around your brown, island nipples
Your eyes flutter, open-mouthed
Clutching for my image
I've become a traveler again
No longer falling forward at sixty seconds
Per minute;
Still, frozen, aching, alone
Parents' trinkets of affection, so needed
Lay vaulted in iron-barred jail cells
Someone, please...
Tell me you love me
Tell me I'm good
Your sudden collapse jars me to now
And there’s moist panting on my neck
Your lips taste like oceans, as I fade
And find myself sweating on the corpse of a lie
Wishing I had Marilyn Monroe's legs
So I could open them
And let everyone love me, just to feel close
But I don't have her legs
So I string words into gaudy necklaces
And offer them to circumcised minds
For introspection
Some call it art, but it's drained puss
Aspirated from the ballpoint of an ink pen
Tangential sentences in an oblique suicide note
Written by an apocalyptic asymptote
Approaching an axis called intimacy
Closer, infinitesimally closer
But never...touching
I belong to the present again
As you gently trace a fingertip along
The outside curve of my ear
In a gesture as honest as a backwoods stream
You softly ask, "What are you thinking?"
And I whisper, "Nothing."
Subdued, laying glistening and spent
We reach to suckle nocturnal breasts
So kiss my closed eyelids
And douse me in slumber
And let the sunset scrawl its cherry epitaph
On this, our special afternoon
What Are You Thinking?
There are no headlines on the newspapers today
And the clock's second hand won't move
And I, I've become humanity's whore
Plunging back into my iris
Collecting every tear since Eve,
Tasting every spite since Adam
Vomiting the twisted panorama into my heart
Hurting, I've burst back through my pupils
Into now, the living day
I watch sunlight dance in prisms
Around your brown, island nipples
Your eyes flutter, open-mouthed
Clutching for my image
I've become a traveler again
No longer falling forward at sixty seconds
Per minute;
Still, frozen, aching, alone
Parents' trinkets of affection, so needed
Lay vaulted in iron-barred jail cells
Someone, please...
Tell me you love me
Tell me I'm good
Your sudden collapse jars me to now
And there’s moist panting on my neck
Your lips taste like oceans, as I fade
And find myself sweating on the corpse of a lie
Wishing I had Marilyn Monroe's legs
So I could open them
And let everyone love me, just to feel close
But I don't have her legs
So I string words into gaudy necklaces
And offer them to circumcised minds
For introspection
Some call it art, but it's drained puss
Aspirated from the ballpoint of an ink pen
Tangential sentences in an oblique suicide note
Written by an apocalyptic asymptote
Approaching an axis called intimacy
Closer, infinitesimally closer
But never...touching
I belong to the present again
As you gently trace a fingertip along
The outside curve of my ear
In a gesture as honest as a backwoods stream
You softly ask, "What are you thinking?"
And I whisper, "Nothing."
Subdued, laying glistening and spent
We reach to suckle nocturnal breasts
So kiss my closed eyelids
And douse me in slumber
And let the sunset scrawl its cherry epitaph
On this, our special afternoon
Saturday, December 3, 2011
An Insect [Chapter 14]
I've started posting the chapters of Resolution 786. I'll post each successive chapter roughly every 3 or 4 days. Here's Chapter 14:
“I’ve read Kafka. I really don’t think he’s all that Kafkaesque. What do you think?”
“I think you’re funny,” replied Becca.
They were lying side by side and face up on their bed. Adam wore loose blue jeans and a flannel shirt with a black and white checkerboard pattern. The sides of his face and chin carried soft shadows of Saturday stubble. His eyes, so often absent, rested in faraway contemplations.
Becca had on her favorite gray sweats, the ones that matched her eyes almost perfectly. She was slightly shorter than Adam, with a thin, muscular runner’s build. Her thick, brown hair reached a palm’s length below her shoulders and was naturally wavy, which is how she kept it most times. She almost never wore makeup. Her face was smooth, cheeks lightly freckled around a small nose. Although teenage boys and middle-aged men glanced at her often when she went places, she behaved in ways unaware of her physical attractiveness. She had carefree and large expressions, becoming happy or angry or sad in enormous degrees, choosing to taste life in big, lusty gulps. Her words formed and moved like her moods and passions — sweeping, obvious and blunt.
Adam looked at her and remembered how he loved the way her gray eyes reflected green when they went hiking in the woods every summer. “So how many layers of meaning can be in one piece of writing?” he asked.
“As many as the reader puts there,” she said.
“No, really. Like when that guy, Samsa, turned into an insect. Wasn’t that powerful?”
“Yeah, that’s realistic — an insect,” she said, her voice drenched in sarcasm.
“I don’t think The Metamorphosis really happened. Samsa didn’t turn into an insect.” Adam’s words and thoughts were as nimble as ever. “If he had become an insect, he would have stopped considering his own consciousness. No, Samsa became a human being who was trapped inside an insect, which is fundamentally different than becoming an insect. And as far as being realistic, if a work of artistic expression doesn’t have a traditional structure, that doesn’t mean that, taken as a whole, it doesn’t still have some valuable or otherwise instructive form or substance.”
Becca had always given Adam a kind ear. She knew he had many relationships and that each one served some functional purpose in his life, but he had no real friends. His emotions seemed in a permanent retreat, bunkered somewhere deep, hiding in wounded fear. She knew that if she stopped listening, he would have no one. And she had made a promise to herself after years of courtship, a promise that she would never abandon him. So she listened, responded.
“Kafka’s Samsa…what kind of egomaniac puts himself in his own writing?” she teased.
Adam remained quiet, waiting, knowing well the acuity with which she chided, the painful truth of her bladed sarcasm.
Becca grinned, realizing that Adam was sizing her impending onslaught. She quietly issued a provocative challenge. “Who even reads that shit?”
“No. That’s not the question,” Adam said. “The question is, ‘What does that mean?’”
“No, the question is, ‘Who writes that shit?’”
“Great writers,” said Adam.
His seriousness made Becca rock with laugher, her head tilting back like it always did, her knees pulled slightly off the mattress, mouth thrown wide open, bellowing loud and riotous. Cackling, she stammered, “I can’t believe you ever got laid.”
“You lay me,” he said, composed, staring forward at the ceiling fan’s still, wooden blades.
She turned to him, done laughing. “Yeah, those are sympathy lays.” She scrunched her small nose and tapped his lightly with her index finger, her way of telling him that she’d just outwitted him.
“Well, are you feeling sympathetic?” Adam raised and lowered his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.
“Hardly.” The jest in Becca’s voice was at a rolling boil.
Adam continued his grotesquely poor Groucho Marx impersonation. “You know, Karl was the fourth Marx brother. Yeah, Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Karl. Karl wanted to join the comedy team, but the other guys always told him, ‘You know, Karl, you’re just not funny.’ So he went and invented Communism. See what happens when you’re not nice to someone?”
Becca closed her eyes and nodded her head gently from side to side, speaking to Adam in a lover’s knowing and muted gestures, telling him how inept she considered his attempt at humor. “You know, Adi, if you keep trying, maybe one day you’ll have a near-life experience.”
They rested, hushed and peaceful for many soft moments, smiling.
Adam nestled in place on their pillow, palm under his head. “Becca, do you like me?”
“Errrrrrrrrr,” she growled in feigned exasperation. “I like you, I like you, for the bazillioneth time, I like you.”
“Do you think I’m funny?”
“You’re funny,” she said.
Noiseless moments passed. Becca sniffled, gently brushing the back of her hand under her nose.
“Promise me in the end you’ll only remember the good stuff,” she said suddenly.
“Life’s a magic show,” said Adam. “And you’ll always be a virgin.” He dropped his head to the side, putting them face-to-face, noses touching.
She giggled. “You look like Cyclops.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“I’ve read Kafka. I really don’t think he’s all that Kafkaesque. What do you think?”
“I think you’re funny,” replied Becca.
They were lying side by side and face up on their bed. Adam wore loose blue jeans and a flannel shirt with a black and white checkerboard pattern. The sides of his face and chin carried soft shadows of Saturday stubble. His eyes, so often absent, rested in faraway contemplations.
Becca had on her favorite gray sweats, the ones that matched her eyes almost perfectly. She was slightly shorter than Adam, with a thin, muscular runner’s build. Her thick, brown hair reached a palm’s length below her shoulders and was naturally wavy, which is how she kept it most times. She almost never wore makeup. Her face was smooth, cheeks lightly freckled around a small nose. Although teenage boys and middle-aged men glanced at her often when she went places, she behaved in ways unaware of her physical attractiveness. She had carefree and large expressions, becoming happy or angry or sad in enormous degrees, choosing to taste life in big, lusty gulps. Her words formed and moved like her moods and passions — sweeping, obvious and blunt.
Adam looked at her and remembered how he loved the way her gray eyes reflected green when they went hiking in the woods every summer. “So how many layers of meaning can be in one piece of writing?” he asked.
“As many as the reader puts there,” she said.
“No, really. Like when that guy, Samsa, turned into an insect. Wasn’t that powerful?”
“Yeah, that’s realistic — an insect,” she said, her voice drenched in sarcasm.
“I don’t think The Metamorphosis really happened. Samsa didn’t turn into an insect.” Adam’s words and thoughts were as nimble as ever. “If he had become an insect, he would have stopped considering his own consciousness. No, Samsa became a human being who was trapped inside an insect, which is fundamentally different than becoming an insect. And as far as being realistic, if a work of artistic expression doesn’t have a traditional structure, that doesn’t mean that, taken as a whole, it doesn’t still have some valuable or otherwise instructive form or substance.”
Becca had always given Adam a kind ear. She knew he had many relationships and that each one served some functional purpose in his life, but he had no real friends. His emotions seemed in a permanent retreat, bunkered somewhere deep, hiding in wounded fear. She knew that if she stopped listening, he would have no one. And she had made a promise to herself after years of courtship, a promise that she would never abandon him. So she listened, responded.
“Kafka’s Samsa…what kind of egomaniac puts himself in his own writing?” she teased.
Adam remained quiet, waiting, knowing well the acuity with which she chided, the painful truth of her bladed sarcasm.
Becca grinned, realizing that Adam was sizing her impending onslaught. She quietly issued a provocative challenge. “Who even reads that shit?”
“No. That’s not the question,” Adam said. “The question is, ‘What does that mean?’”
“No, the question is, ‘Who writes that shit?’”
“Great writers,” said Adam.
His seriousness made Becca rock with laugher, her head tilting back like it always did, her knees pulled slightly off the mattress, mouth thrown wide open, bellowing loud and riotous. Cackling, she stammered, “I can’t believe you ever got laid.”
“You lay me,” he said, composed, staring forward at the ceiling fan’s still, wooden blades.
She turned to him, done laughing. “Yeah, those are sympathy lays.” She scrunched her small nose and tapped his lightly with her index finger, her way of telling him that she’d just outwitted him.
“Well, are you feeling sympathetic?” Adam raised and lowered his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.
“Hardly.” The jest in Becca’s voice was at a rolling boil.
Adam continued his grotesquely poor Groucho Marx impersonation. “You know, Karl was the fourth Marx brother. Yeah, Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Karl. Karl wanted to join the comedy team, but the other guys always told him, ‘You know, Karl, you’re just not funny.’ So he went and invented Communism. See what happens when you’re not nice to someone?”
Becca closed her eyes and nodded her head gently from side to side, speaking to Adam in a lover’s knowing and muted gestures, telling him how inept she considered his attempt at humor. “You know, Adi, if you keep trying, maybe one day you’ll have a near-life experience.”
They rested, hushed and peaceful for many soft moments, smiling.
Adam nestled in place on their pillow, palm under his head. “Becca, do you like me?”
“Errrrrrrrrr,” she growled in feigned exasperation. “I like you, I like you, for the bazillioneth time, I like you.”
“Do you think I’m funny?”
“You’re funny,” she said.
Noiseless moments passed. Becca sniffled, gently brushing the back of her hand under her nose.
“Promise me in the end you’ll only remember the good stuff,” she said suddenly.
“Life’s a magic show,” said Adam. “And you’ll always be a virgin.” He dropped his head to the side, putting them face-to-face, noses touching.
She giggled. “You look like Cyclops.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Bone of My Bones, Anno Domini 1999 [Chapter 13]
I've started posting the chapters of Resolution 786. I'll post each successive chapter roughly every 3 or 4 days. Here's Chapter 13. Chapter 13 is the first chapter of Act II of the novel:
Act II Incidents of Heart
“I liked your poems.” Rebecca Gowetski’s words rang through the phone line like playful school bells. “I’m surprised to see interesting poetry come out of the Engineering Department.”
“Thanks,” said Adam Hueghlomm.
She waited for more. Nothing. She wondered if she might have somehow insulted him with her comment about the Engineering Department. She cleared her throat. “Yeah…I’d like to run both of them in the Spring issue of Focus. Can I get your permission?”
“Sure.”
More silence.
“OK.” She waited a few moments to let him speak. He didn’t. “Thank you,” she said. Realizing that it was all business, her words lost some of their playfulness. “Your last name’s unique. Let’s confirm the spelling: h-u-e-g-h-l-o-m-m. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Jewish.”
“Well, I’m a Po-Wop,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Half Polish, half Italian. That’s what my Mum-mum used to call me…her little Po-Wop.”
“Mum-mum?”
“Grandmother.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Do you really wish you had Marilyn Monroe’s legs?” she asked suddenly.
He hesitated a moment, caught off guard, then realized that she had recited a line in one of his poems. “Eh…no…no, it was just an image,” he replied.
“Well, why? I mean, do you think it’d make you look sexy?” Her voice had recaptured its pogo stick bounce, teasing him.
“Um…no…eh…loveable,” he said.
Her riotous laugh reverberated through the phone line. “To each his own,” she said, still chuckling.
“Thank you for paying attention…to the words,” he said.
“I’d be one lousy editor if I didn’t, huh?” she ribbed.
Both fell quiet.
She pulled them out of silence. “What year are you?”
“I’m finishing up my doctorate. I work for the Army, a civilian research engineer. They sent me back for my third degree. Third and last.”
“I bet that’s exciting,” she said, suddenly matter-of-fact. Unlike many other college students, she sounded wholly unimpressed with the prospect of a Ph.D.
Adam became curious. “How about you?”
“Masters student. Education. Minor in literature.”
More quiet.
Again, she led. “I felt a lot moving underneath your words. Your poems are like cooling lava. Interesting stuff, but you wonder what else might be churning in the volcano.” She paused. “Something eating at you?”
For the second time in their first conversation, she had caught him off guard. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“The second poem. Blame, blame, blame.”
Quiet.
She filled the silence, backtracking, trying to create a comfortable escape for him. “I mean, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. I like it and all…” She stumbled about, trying to find the right words. “It’s powerful and you really make some thought-provoking points. I was just wondering — what kind of answer do you really expect from your Alpha, your Omega?”
“I don’t think it’s a question that can be answered.” His voice softened, becoming introspective. “But that doesn’t mean that it’s a question that shouldn’t be asked,” he added, a far-away tone. His mind left and wandered the cold stars. His eyes blinked and he suddenly remembered that she existed.
“Thank you for paying attention,” he said. His words had lost their machined edges.
She smiled, surprised by his softening tone, his dropping guard. “Do you like coffee, Mr.…” she groped for the proper pronunciation of his last name. “Huge-loam? Hug-lum?”
“Hue-lum,” he said. “Silent g, silent h. Do you go by ‘Po-Wop’?”
“No.” Her laugh was hearty and full of mischief. “I like ‘Becca.’”
They both stopped talking, stillness soaked in a silk, pulsing hum.
She led them softly, out of the silence. “Well, Mr. Silent G, Silent H, would you like to have coffee sometime?”
“Umm...sure…I mean, yes.”
“OK. You have something to write with?” She could hear him over the telephone. He was rustling around ineptly for a pen or a pencil. She chuckled, covering her mouth with her hand, tilting the phone away.
“OK.” He was back on the line, slightly flustered and a little out of breath. “Got it.”
“Take this number down,” she said. “Call me when you’re ready.”
Act II Incidents of Heart
“I liked your poems.” Rebecca Gowetski’s words rang through the phone line like playful school bells. “I’m surprised to see interesting poetry come out of the Engineering Department.”
“Thanks,” said Adam Hueghlomm.
She waited for more. Nothing. She wondered if she might have somehow insulted him with her comment about the Engineering Department. She cleared her throat. “Yeah…I’d like to run both of them in the Spring issue of Focus. Can I get your permission?”
“Sure.”
More silence.
“OK.” She waited a few moments to let him speak. He didn’t. “Thank you,” she said. Realizing that it was all business, her words lost some of their playfulness. “Your last name’s unique. Let’s confirm the spelling: h-u-e-g-h-l-o-m-m. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Jewish.”
“Well, I’m a Po-Wop,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Half Polish, half Italian. That’s what my Mum-mum used to call me…her little Po-Wop.”
“Mum-mum?”
“Grandmother.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Do you really wish you had Marilyn Monroe’s legs?” she asked suddenly.
He hesitated a moment, caught off guard, then realized that she had recited a line in one of his poems. “Eh…no…no, it was just an image,” he replied.
“Well, why? I mean, do you think it’d make you look sexy?” Her voice had recaptured its pogo stick bounce, teasing him.
“Um…no…eh…loveable,” he said.
Her riotous laugh reverberated through the phone line. “To each his own,” she said, still chuckling.
“Thank you for paying attention…to the words,” he said.
“I’d be one lousy editor if I didn’t, huh?” she ribbed.
Both fell quiet.
She pulled them out of silence. “What year are you?”
“I’m finishing up my doctorate. I work for the Army, a civilian research engineer. They sent me back for my third degree. Third and last.”
“I bet that’s exciting,” she said, suddenly matter-of-fact. Unlike many other college students, she sounded wholly unimpressed with the prospect of a Ph.D.
Adam became curious. “How about you?”
“Masters student. Education. Minor in literature.”
More quiet.
Again, she led. “I felt a lot moving underneath your words. Your poems are like cooling lava. Interesting stuff, but you wonder what else might be churning in the volcano.” She paused. “Something eating at you?”
For the second time in their first conversation, she had caught him off guard. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“The second poem. Blame, blame, blame.”
Quiet.
She filled the silence, backtracking, trying to create a comfortable escape for him. “I mean, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. I like it and all…” She stumbled about, trying to find the right words. “It’s powerful and you really make some thought-provoking points. I was just wondering — what kind of answer do you really expect from your Alpha, your Omega?”
“I don’t think it’s a question that can be answered.” His voice softened, becoming introspective. “But that doesn’t mean that it’s a question that shouldn’t be asked,” he added, a far-away tone. His mind left and wandered the cold stars. His eyes blinked and he suddenly remembered that she existed.
“Thank you for paying attention,” he said. His words had lost their machined edges.
She smiled, surprised by his softening tone, his dropping guard. “Do you like coffee, Mr.…” she groped for the proper pronunciation of his last name. “Huge-loam? Hug-lum?”
“Hue-lum,” he said. “Silent g, silent h. Do you go by ‘Po-Wop’?”
“No.” Her laugh was hearty and full of mischief. “I like ‘Becca.’”
They both stopped talking, stillness soaked in a silk, pulsing hum.
She led them softly, out of the silence. “Well, Mr. Silent G, Silent H, would you like to have coffee sometime?”
“Umm...sure…I mean, yes.”
“OK. You have something to write with?” She could hear him over the telephone. He was rustling around ineptly for a pen or a pencil. She chuckled, covering her mouth with her hand, tilting the phone away.
“OK.” He was back on the line, slightly flustered and a little out of breath. “Got it.”
“Take this number down,” she said. “Call me when you’re ready.”
Friday, December 2, 2011
But He Doesn't Tell Me What the Sounds Mean [Chapter 12]
I've started posting the chapters of Resolution 786. I'll post each successive chapter roughly every 3 or 4 days. Here's Chapter 12:
“Adam!” Fatima yelled from the kitchen to the rear of the house, toward the bedrooms, as she dried her hands on a dishtowel.
“Adam!” she repeated, louder, her eyebrows moving closer together with the effort.
No reply.
“Adam, Mr. Ishmael is here for your lessons. Come here!” her hands on her hips, head down.
Still no answer.
Fatima came into the family room, gave Ishmael an embarrassed, forced smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll go get Adam.”
“Yes.” Ishmael smiled, nodding politely, rising ever so slightly off the comfortable sofa.
Fatima darted through the corridor that connected the entry and the kitchen, her long, loose skirt flapping floral patterns into the gray shadows. She moved quickly toward the bedrooms, her soft nurse’s shoes making no noise as they glided over the hard floor. She reached the door to Adam’s room, clutched the disc-shaped metal knob and stopped abruptly. The door was locked. Fatima rolled her eyes, placed a soft, open palm on the wooden door and called to her son, a concerned tone. “Adam? Adam?”
“Go away,” she heard his young voice on the other side.
“No, you come out right now.”
She waited.
“Open this door right now, Adam,” she insisted.
The hall became quiet, the door held its ground. Then she heard the key slowly turn, dry metal parts dragging across each other bit by bit, a rigid bolt moving out of its dark slot and back into the body of the door. She exhaled lightly, turning the knob, bracing, pushing away the stiff, wooden barrier that stood between them. Adam had backed away from the door, sitting on the edge of his small bed, across the room, angled away from her, looking out the window. He was barefoot, wearing his favorite gray shorts and a yellow T-shirt.
“Adam, I told you to come out and do your lessons with Mr. Ishmael.” She moved towards him gently and sat down next to him on the edge of his bed, placing a tender, open palm on his small shoulder.
“I don’t like him,” said Adam, staring at trees and sky.
“You don’t have to like him. You have to learn from him.”
“There’s nothing to learn.”
“Stop being difficult, Adam. Go to the family room.”
“He never tells me what the sounds mean!” Adam shouted.
“Shhhhhh.” She moved a hand towards his mouth quickly, her index finger pressed vertically across both his lips. “He’ll hear you,” she whispered, her face suddenly tense.
“So what!” yelled Adam.
“Adam, be quiet.” She glared at him and added, “Right now!” in a sharp, intent whisper.
They stared at each other, battling wills.
“Adam, what’s going on with you? You want to argue about everything these days — what you eat, what you wear, about praying...”
“I don’t want to pray anymore,” he quipped.
“Adam, you were a five-timer, you never missed a daily prayer. What happened? I was so proud of you. But ever since we got back from California…”
“Don’t talk about Dad!” he shouted.
“I didn’t say anything about Daddy,” Fatima said, adding angrily, “And what if I did? You don’t tell me what to talk about.”
“And you don’t tell me!”
“Adam, what’s wrong with you?”
“God took away Dad because Dad believed in him,” he said.
“Adam, that doesn’t make sense.”
“You don’t make sense. You don’t like me,” he said through small, clenched teeth. “You don’t pay attention.”
“You need to learn your prayers, Adam! We’re moving to America soon. And there’s no one there who can teach you prayers. I need you to learn here, before we go and there’s no one.” A profound sadness swept through her being and she hung her head, pleading in a whisper, “No one.”
Adam peered at his mother, perplexed, lost, helpless.
“Mom, I’ll go out,” he acquiesced, suddenly worried about his mother’s changed demeanor.
Fatima didn’t speak or move. Her head suddenly bowed in rippling waves of melancholy.
She broke the silence, a tone of realized finality. “No, Adam. Don’t go out there.”
“What?” he muttered, confused.
“Don’t do anything you don’t want to,” she said, not looking at him.
“Mom, are you OK?”
“I’ll pay Mr. Ishmael and tell him not to come back.”
“Mom, I’ll go out,” he said, a troubled submission. He fumbled through a long series of half-syllables and halted words, finally composing an unasked explanation. “He’s strange, Mom…it’s just...he never answers my questions…and he won’t tell me what the sounds mean, he just forces me to learn a bunch of sounds. But he doesn’t tell me what they mean. There’s a lot more to what words can mean…and sometimes a lot less.”
“There’s no need for this, Adam,” she said, not looking at him, holding an open palm in his direction, cutting short his unnecessary annotations. “Stay in here as long as you want.” Fatima stood, pointing to the floor adjacent to her son’s bed, wanting to make a symbolic assertion of her maternal authority. “And pick all these books up off the floor.”
She left in peace, slowly shutting the door to his room as he watched.
Adam was moved to voice one final disagreement at the closing door. “There is someone in America, Mom. Someone who’ll teach me to pray.”
The door closed.
Fatima moved back through the quiet corridor in a surrendered grace, passing the entry and the kitchen. She came into the large family room where Ishmael was waiting patiently.
“Mr. Ishmael,” she said, a polite professional.
Ishmael stood from the sofa, the creases in his long, white robe falling straight, a wide, greeting smile on his black-bearded brown face. “Yes, Mrs. Fatima?” he said pleasantly.
“Adam won’t be coming for lessons today.”
“Is he ill, Madam? Should I go to the drug store for medicines, maybe?” His Arabic accent commingled with a tinge of British.
“No,” Fatima replied, a slightly embarrassed mother with a proper smile on her face. She added in genuine gratitude, “But thank you for being kind.” The polite, matter-of-fact professional tone returned. “Mr. Ishmael, we’re moving to America. Adam will no longer need your lessons. Thank you for teaching him everything that you have. Here’s your fee for today’s lesson.” She put her hand forward, bills folded between her fingers. A second later the bills were gone.
“Perhaps the future will provide an opportunity for me to give Adam more lessons,” said Ishmael, being polite.
“Perhaps,” Fatima replied.
“America?” Ishmael said, head tilted, eyes wide, nodding slowly, his mouth pulled down at each end in reflection. “I once knew a lady from America — Amber,” he said in a fleeting, peculiar reminiscence.
“Will America allow you to raise little Adam a Muslim?” he asked, returning to the present.
“I’ve been there twice. You can raise yourself whatever you want. There aren’t any rules,” Fatima said.
“No written rules,” Ishmael agreed, persistent, his eyes squinted, pushed together by the forced, enormous smile decorating his long brown face. “But all the unwritten rules.”
Fatima said nothing.
The volley had flown out of bounds, lost, and Ishmael took one last swing at the air. “Will America make little Adam a Muslim or a Jew?”
“Is there really a difference,” said Fatima. In tone, delivery and intent, it was a statement rather than a question.
“Adam!” Fatima yelled from the kitchen to the rear of the house, toward the bedrooms, as she dried her hands on a dishtowel.
“Adam!” she repeated, louder, her eyebrows moving closer together with the effort.
No reply.
“Adam, Mr. Ishmael is here for your lessons. Come here!” her hands on her hips, head down.
Still no answer.
Fatima came into the family room, gave Ishmael an embarrassed, forced smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll go get Adam.”
“Yes.” Ishmael smiled, nodding politely, rising ever so slightly off the comfortable sofa.
Fatima darted through the corridor that connected the entry and the kitchen, her long, loose skirt flapping floral patterns into the gray shadows. She moved quickly toward the bedrooms, her soft nurse’s shoes making no noise as they glided over the hard floor. She reached the door to Adam’s room, clutched the disc-shaped metal knob and stopped abruptly. The door was locked. Fatima rolled her eyes, placed a soft, open palm on the wooden door and called to her son, a concerned tone. “Adam? Adam?”
“Go away,” she heard his young voice on the other side.
“No, you come out right now.”
She waited.
“Open this door right now, Adam,” she insisted.
The hall became quiet, the door held its ground. Then she heard the key slowly turn, dry metal parts dragging across each other bit by bit, a rigid bolt moving out of its dark slot and back into the body of the door. She exhaled lightly, turning the knob, bracing, pushing away the stiff, wooden barrier that stood between them. Adam had backed away from the door, sitting on the edge of his small bed, across the room, angled away from her, looking out the window. He was barefoot, wearing his favorite gray shorts and a yellow T-shirt.
“Adam, I told you to come out and do your lessons with Mr. Ishmael.” She moved towards him gently and sat down next to him on the edge of his bed, placing a tender, open palm on his small shoulder.
“I don’t like him,” said Adam, staring at trees and sky.
“You don’t have to like him. You have to learn from him.”
“There’s nothing to learn.”
“Stop being difficult, Adam. Go to the family room.”
“He never tells me what the sounds mean!” Adam shouted.
“Shhhhhh.” She moved a hand towards his mouth quickly, her index finger pressed vertically across both his lips. “He’ll hear you,” she whispered, her face suddenly tense.
“So what!” yelled Adam.
“Adam, be quiet.” She glared at him and added, “Right now!” in a sharp, intent whisper.
They stared at each other, battling wills.
“Adam, what’s going on with you? You want to argue about everything these days — what you eat, what you wear, about praying...”
“I don’t want to pray anymore,” he quipped.
“Adam, you were a five-timer, you never missed a daily prayer. What happened? I was so proud of you. But ever since we got back from California…”
“Don’t talk about Dad!” he shouted.
“I didn’t say anything about Daddy,” Fatima said, adding angrily, “And what if I did? You don’t tell me what to talk about.”
“And you don’t tell me!”
“Adam, what’s wrong with you?”
“God took away Dad because Dad believed in him,” he said.
“Adam, that doesn’t make sense.”
“You don’t make sense. You don’t like me,” he said through small, clenched teeth. “You don’t pay attention.”
“You need to learn your prayers, Adam! We’re moving to America soon. And there’s no one there who can teach you prayers. I need you to learn here, before we go and there’s no one.” A profound sadness swept through her being and she hung her head, pleading in a whisper, “No one.”
Adam peered at his mother, perplexed, lost, helpless.
“Mom, I’ll go out,” he acquiesced, suddenly worried about his mother’s changed demeanor.
Fatima didn’t speak or move. Her head suddenly bowed in rippling waves of melancholy.
She broke the silence, a tone of realized finality. “No, Adam. Don’t go out there.”
“What?” he muttered, confused.
“Don’t do anything you don’t want to,” she said, not looking at him.
“Mom, are you OK?”
“I’ll pay Mr. Ishmael and tell him not to come back.”
“Mom, I’ll go out,” he said, a troubled submission. He fumbled through a long series of half-syllables and halted words, finally composing an unasked explanation. “He’s strange, Mom…it’s just...he never answers my questions…and he won’t tell me what the sounds mean, he just forces me to learn a bunch of sounds. But he doesn’t tell me what they mean. There’s a lot more to what words can mean…and sometimes a lot less.”
“There’s no need for this, Adam,” she said, not looking at him, holding an open palm in his direction, cutting short his unnecessary annotations. “Stay in here as long as you want.” Fatima stood, pointing to the floor adjacent to her son’s bed, wanting to make a symbolic assertion of her maternal authority. “And pick all these books up off the floor.”
She left in peace, slowly shutting the door to his room as he watched.
Adam was moved to voice one final disagreement at the closing door. “There is someone in America, Mom. Someone who’ll teach me to pray.”
The door closed.
Fatima moved back through the quiet corridor in a surrendered grace, passing the entry and the kitchen. She came into the large family room where Ishmael was waiting patiently.
“Mr. Ishmael,” she said, a polite professional.
Ishmael stood from the sofa, the creases in his long, white robe falling straight, a wide, greeting smile on his black-bearded brown face. “Yes, Mrs. Fatima?” he said pleasantly.
“Adam won’t be coming for lessons today.”
“Is he ill, Madam? Should I go to the drug store for medicines, maybe?” His Arabic accent commingled with a tinge of British.
“No,” Fatima replied, a slightly embarrassed mother with a proper smile on her face. She added in genuine gratitude, “But thank you for being kind.” The polite, matter-of-fact professional tone returned. “Mr. Ishmael, we’re moving to America. Adam will no longer need your lessons. Thank you for teaching him everything that you have. Here’s your fee for today’s lesson.” She put her hand forward, bills folded between her fingers. A second later the bills were gone.
“Perhaps the future will provide an opportunity for me to give Adam more lessons,” said Ishmael, being polite.
“Perhaps,” Fatima replied.
“America?” Ishmael said, head tilted, eyes wide, nodding slowly, his mouth pulled down at each end in reflection. “I once knew a lady from America — Amber,” he said in a fleeting, peculiar reminiscence.
“Will America allow you to raise little Adam a Muslim?” he asked, returning to the present.
“I’ve been there twice. You can raise yourself whatever you want. There aren’t any rules,” Fatima said.
“No written rules,” Ishmael agreed, persistent, his eyes squinted, pushed together by the forced, enormous smile decorating his long brown face. “But all the unwritten rules.”
Fatima said nothing.
The volley had flown out of bounds, lost, and Ishmael took one last swing at the air. “Will America make little Adam a Muslim or a Jew?”
“Is there really a difference,” said Fatima. In tone, delivery and intent, it was a statement rather than a question.
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